Archive of Our Own ^beta

Prologue

I died in 2025. Not dramatically, mind you. No meteor strikes or rogue AI uprisings. Just… poof. Gone. One minute I was debugging a particularly nasty quantum entanglement algorithm (seriously, try explaining that to your grandma), the next I was staring at dust bunnies the size of small hamsters.

Then I opened my eyes.

And found myself in a cupboard under the stairs.

Let that sink in. I went from the cutting edge of theoretical physics to… living under the stairs. My new accommodations were roughly the size of a large suitcase, furnished with a threadbare mattress that smelled vaguely of damp dog and an impressive collection of arachnid roommates. I knew exactly where I was, of course. I’d read about this hovel countless times. I was Harry Potter.

Except I really wasn't supposed to be Harry Potter. In my previous life, I was Sarah Chen, a 23-year-old junior software & quantum engineer from Seattle. My days were filled with coding, caffeine, and lunch breaks spent devouring fantasy novels. My nights were spent… well, mostly coding and occasionally sleeping. Now, I had a lightning bolt scar, a boy's body (a significant downgrade in the wardrobe department, let me tell you), and a distinct feeling of being profoundly out of place. It was like accidentally logging into the wrong server – everything was familiar but utterly wrong.

"Up! Get up! Now!" Aunt Petunia’s voice screeched through the door, a sound that could curdle milk at fifty paces. It was exactly as it was in the books. The sheer, uncanny accuracy of it all was unsettling. I felt a surreal disconnect, like watching a movie I’d already seen a thousand times, except now I was in the movie, playing the lead role (a role I hadn’t auditioned for, by the way).

Learning to be a boy was… well, let’s just say it was a learning experience. I kept instinctively reaching for nonexistent long hair, resulting in some awkward hand-patting of my own head. My voice sounded like a poorly tuned radio, a bizarre baritone that didn’t quite match the face in the mirror (which, by the way, was perpetually smudged with dust). And then there was Dudley. Oh, Dudley. When he shoved me around, my muscle memory screamed for a well-placed judo flip (years of self-defense classes in Seattle, you see). But this new, smaller, male body moved with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on roller skates.

The physical changes were one thing, but the real challenge was the knowing. Every time Uncle Vernon’s face turned puce (which was often, usually after I breathed), I knew it was the precursor to the incoming Hogwarts letter avalanche. Every time I saw a snake at the zoo (a boa constrictor, if I recall correctly), my stomach did a nervous flip-flop. I’d read about these events as entertainment; living them was like watching a horror movie where you knew all the jump scares in advance. It’s less thrilling and more like constantly bracing for impact.

And then there was the guilt. It was irrational, I knew, but every time something mildly inconvenient happened to the Dursleys (like Dudley tripping over his own feet or Aunt Petunia burning the toast), I felt strangely responsible. Like I was somehow manipulating the narrative. I had an adult’s understanding of consequences in a child’s body, and sometimes that knowledge felt less like a superpower and more like a really irritating side effect.

But amidst the dust, the Dudley-induced bruises, and the existential dread, there were moments of genuine wonder. The first time I held my wand at Ollivanders, the magic that surged through me wasn’t the warm, fuzzy feeling I’d imagined from the books. It was more like sticking a fork in a light socket – exhilarating, slightly terrifying, and undeniably real. And despite everything – the gender confusion, the impending doom, the constant fear of spiders – a small, genuine smile crept onto my face.

Because whatever fresh hell being Harry Potter threw my way, I had something the original Harry never did: I knew how the story ended. I knew that, eventually, love (and a whole lot of magical explosions) would conquer all. I just had to figure out how to navigate this bizarre new reality – as this new, slightly bewildered, very confused, and definitely spider-averse version of myself. And maybe, just maybe, find a decent exterminator.

The day Hagrid took me to Diagon Alley, my excitement wasn't just about the magic (though, let's be real, that was a huge part of it). It was about Gringotts. In my past life, as Sarah Chen, I'd only seen mountains of gold in movies and video games. Now, I was about to see the real deal, and my inner magpie was practically vibrating with anticipation.

"Vault 687," the goblin announced with a dry click of his tongue, like he was announcing the arrival of a particularly boring tax audit. I had to physically restrain myself from doing a little jig. The vault door swung open, revealing… well, it. My inheritance. Or rather, Harry’s inheritance. The whole "two lives, one body" thing was still a bit of a head-scratcher.

The piles of gold Galleons, gleaming silver Sickles, and copper Knuts shimmered in the torchlight, like a dragon’s hoard after a particularly successful raid on a jewelry store. My mind, ever the practical one, immediately started calculating. As Sarah, I’d scrimped and saved for three years, carefully managing my hard-earned $23,000 and dabbling in the terrifying world of investments. Now, at eleven years old, I was staring at a fortune that made my previous net worth look like pocket change. The irony was thicker than Hagrid’s treacle tart.

"Take what yeh need fer school supplies," Hagrid said, bless his gentle giant heart. He probably pictured a few Galleons for textbooks and maybe a new quill. I, however, had bigger plans. I filled my pouch until it threatened to burst, like a magical piñata about to explode with gold. This time, Harry Potter wasn't going to be caught short. I knew about the Triwizard Tournament (and the whole near-death experience that came with it), the years on the run hunting Horcruxes (basically a magical scavenger hunt with seriously high stakes). A little financial cushion wouldn't hurt. A lot of financial cushion would be even better.

Handling so much wealth in this small body felt… surreal. Back in Seattle, I'd spent hours researching index funds and Roth IRAs. Now, I was an eleven-year-old boy with a vault full of magical bling, and I couldn't exactly stroll into Gringotts and ask about their wizarding equivalent of a 401(k). “Excuse me, Mr. Goblin, do you offer any diversified portfolios with a focus on long-term growth and minimal risk?” Yeah, that would go over well.

As we left the bank, I caught my reflection in a shop window. Messy black hair, round glasses, that iconic lightning-bolt scar. The face of Harry Potter stared back at me, but behind those emerald eyes lurked a woman who used to read about his adventures while battling the perils of online grocery shopping and rogue dust bunnies.

"Yeh all right, Harry?" Hagrid asked, his brow furrowed like a particularly crinkled gnome hat.

"Yeah," I squeaked, still getting used to the higher pitch of my new voice. It kept cracking, which was both embarrassing and hilarious. "Just… strategizing."

And I was. This time, Harry Potter was going to be prepared. No more hand-me-down robes that looked like they’d been through a washing machine with a grumpy troll. No more broken glasses held together with Scotch tape. I knew what was coming – the trials, the tribulations, the full-blown magical war – and I intended to face it with every advantage I could get my hands on.

But first, I needed to master the art of walking like a boy. My previous walk, honed through years of navigating crowded sidewalks and dodging rogue shopping carts, involved a certain hip sway that was decidedly… not Harry Potter-esque. Being ridiculously wealthy was one thing; being ridiculously wealthy while trying not to sashay through Diagon Alley like a runway model was quite another. I could just imagine the headlines in the Daily Prophet: “Boy-Who-Lived Debuts Questionable Hip Movements – Is This the Dark Lord’s Latest Tactic?” No, thank you. I had enough on my plate without becoming a meme.

Just as Hagrid turned to leave, a rogue memory cell in my brain – probably triggered by years of questionable fanfiction – fired up. Extra vaults? Hidden Potter fortunes? Sure, it was usually just fanfic fluff, but a little voice whispered, "What if…?"

"Excuse me," I chirped to the goblin teller, channeling my best polite-yet-slightly-entitled pureblood impression. "I was wondering if there might be… other vaults? Perhaps something relating to the Master of Death… or, you know, a super-secret, extra-special Potter family vault of ultimate destiny?"

The goblin’s head whipped around so fast, I half-expected him to do a 360. Hagrid, bless his heart, just looked confused from afar, probably wondering if I'd suddenly developed Tourette's. But the goblin’s eyes narrowed into slits that could slice dragon hide.

"You know of the Ancient Vault?" he hissed, his voice echoing despite being barely above a whisper. "How?"

I swallowed hard. "I… had a hunch? A premonition? Maybe a really vivid dream involving dancing galleons?" I opted for vague and mysterious.

The goblin scrutinized me for what felt like an eternity. "No one could have known of its existence except… your parents. The fact that you asked…" He trailed off, looking like he was wrestling a particularly stubborn niffler. "Follow me. Alone."

Hagrid sputtered protests, but the goblin was having none of it. This was top-secret, family-business-level stuff. No giant, half-giant, or giant-sized anything allowed.

We descended. And descended. And descended some more. Past the regular vaults, past the high-security vaults (which now looked like piggy banks in comparison), down, down, down into the earth’s magical bowels. Finally, we stopped at a door that shimmered with an almost otherworldly glow.

"The Ancient Vault," the goblin announced with a dramatic flourish. "Or as your parents… rather eccentrically… called it: the Infinity Vault."

The door swung open, and I swear, I forgot how to inhale. In my past life, I’d dabbled in quantum development, wrestled with numbers that made my calculator cry. I’d read about billionaires, even tried to understand the stock market (a truly Sisyphean task). But this… this was on a whole different plane of existence.

"The current balance," the goblin said, with a hint of what I think was amusement, "is approximately three decillion galleons."

My knees threatened to buckle. I knew Bezos and Musk had squabbled over hundreds of billions. But a decillion? That was a one followed by thirty zeros. Three of them? It was like trying to count grains of sand on every beach on every planet in every galaxy.

"How…?" I wheezed.

"The vault exists outside normal time," the goblin explained, as if this was perfectly normal. "It accumulates interest across all possible timelines simultaneously. Your parents, bless their cotton socks, knew what they were doing when they set this up. The amount now pays excellent dividend rates, it seems. Like, really excellent."

I burst out laughing. It wasn't a dignified laugh. It was more of a hysterical cackle that probably sounded like a hyena choking on a rubber chicken. The goblin looked mildly concerned. Here I was, a former junior quantum engineer from 2025, trapped in Harry Potter’s body, discovering I wasn’t just rich, I was rich enough to buy the moon and turn it into a giant disco ball. The billionaires of my past life? They were playing with pocket change.

"Would you…," I gasped, trying to regain some semblance of composure, "would you happen to have a conversion rate to Muggle money?"

The goblin’s smile revealed an unsettling number of teeth. "Mr. Potter," he purred, "there isn’t enough Muggle money in existence to convert even a fraction of this vault. If you converted just one percent of one percent, you’d not only crash every stock market, you’d probably cause a global paper shortage and send the world back to bartering with seashells."

I promptly sat down on the Gringotts floor. My mind was doing backflips, cartwheels, and attempting the tango. All those fanfics about Harry's secret wealth had severely undersold the reality. I’d once stressed about affording a new graphics card. Now, I could buy the entire Nvidia corporation and not even feel a blip in my magical bank account.

The question wasn’t what I could buy anymore. It was what I should do with this kind of power. Because let’s face it, this wasn't just wealth, it was raw, unadulterated power. And having read the Harry Potter series multiple times, I knew exactly how easily power could corrupt.

"Right," I said, finally staggering to my feet. "I don’t suppose you offer, like, financial advising services for people who accidentally inherited enough money to rewrite global economics?"

The goblin’s laughter echoed through the vault, a sound that could curdle milk at fifty paces. "Mr. Potter," he chuckled, "for this vault, we offer… whatever services you require."

As we ascended back to the main Gringotts hall, where a very confused Hagrid was probably placing bets on whether I'd spontaneously combusted, my brain was a whirlwind of calculations and possibilities. I had future knowledge, a body swap story for the ages, and now, enough money to make Croesus look like a street performer. Voldemort didn’t stand a chance.

Now, I just had to figure out how to explain to Hagrid why I looked like I’d just seen a ghost… or rather, a ghost’s extremely well-funded bank account. Actually, scratch that. Why would I even tell Hagrid? He'd probably try to buy everyone in Diagon Alley a lifetime supply of rock cakes. Best to keep this little detail under wraps. For now.

Just before we reached the upper levels of Gringotts, a truly pressing question popped into my head. I leaned towards the goblin, trying to sound casual, "So, just out of curiosity… what’s the daily interest on, say, three decillion galleons?"

The goblin, bless his pointy-eared heart, didn't even flinch. He just whipped out this tiny crystal doohickey – looked like a diamond-encrusted calculator from the future – and started tapping away. After a few seconds, he looked up, that trademark sharp-toothed grin plastered on his face. "At our current rate of 0.01% per day, you earn approximately… 100 quintillion galleons daily."

I swear, my knees went weak. I had to grab the wall to avoid face-planting onto the polished goblin-made floor. Back in my old life, I’d thrown a party if my retirement account managed a measly 3% annual return. This was… well, it was like comparing a goldfish to a kraken. A kraken riding a rocket-powered unicorn.

Once I’d regained some semblance of composure (and checked my pulse), I leaned in again, lowering my voice like I was sharing a top-secret recipe for exploding lemonade. "One more thing," I whispered, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping (as if anyone could comprehend these numbers). "Could I get, like, a goblin-made ring? You know, one of those fancy ones that can store stuff inside? And…" I hesitated, channeling my inner tech billionaire, "could you maybe… put about a trillion galleons in it? For, you know… everyday expenses?"

The goblin didn’t even raise an eyebrow. It was like I’d asked for a glass of water. He just snapped his fingers, and another goblin materialized, holding a sleek platinum ring carved with runes. It looked surprisingly understated, considering it was about to house more money than existed in several small countries.

"The storage space is… unlimited," the goblin explained, sliding the ring onto my finger. It resized itself perfectly, like it had been custom-made (which, I suppose, it technically was). "Simply think of what you require, and it will appear in your hand. The ring is bound to your blood – only you can use it or remove it."

Right. Unlimited storage. A trillion galleons for pocket change. I officially accepted my fate: I was ridiculously, absurdly, laughably rich. Should I get a few more rings? One for shoes, one for snacks, maybe a dedicated ring for emergency dragons? Hmm, later.

I stared at the ring. It was a simple band, thankfully not dripping with gaudy jewels. It looked… normal. Inside, though, it held more wealth than Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, and Scrooge McDuck combined, and it was just a tiny fraction of what was sitting in my vault. The sheer ridiculousness of it all hit me again. I used to debate whether a $5 latte was worth it!

"The ring also automatically converts currencies," the goblin added, like it was no big deal. "Both magical and Muggle. You shall never worry about exchange rates. I have also prepared several cards for you. A black card and other colored cards for your muggle shopping use". He smirked at me. The nerve of this goblin! I was once a mere mortal, a colored-card user myself! He has no idea about the struggle!

When we finally emerged back into the main hall, Hagrid was pacing back and forth, looking like he’d aged ten years.

"All righ', Harry? Was startin' to worry!" he boomed.

"Everything's fine, Hagrid," I said, unconsciously fiddling with the ring. "Just had some… family business to discuss. You know how it is."

As we stepped out into the bright sunlight of Diagon Alley, I couldn’t help but grin. Okay, so I was dealing with the whole gender dysphoria thing and the mind-boggling weirdness of being reborn as Harry Potter. But hey, at least I’d never have to clip coupons again. Now, the real challenge was figuring out how to spend this ludicrous fortune without making everyone think I’d robbed Fort Knox (or, you know, my own vault).

The thought drifted through my mind: what would my old engineer co-workers say if they knew I was now richer than entire nations? Oh, if only I could bring a mountain of galleons to the office and just casually shower my evil boss with gold coins before happily handing in my resignation. That would be a truly magical moment.

The next morning, after ensuring the Dursleys were thoroughly engrossed in their usual symphony of domestic chaos (Uncle Vernon bellowing at the newspaper, Dudley attempting to eat the entire contents of the fridge, and Aunt Petunia polishing already-sparkling surfaces with the fervor of a religious zealot), I executed my escape. A quick transformation, a subtle poof, and I was back in London, on a mission of vital importance: Operation: Tame the Potter Mane.

In my previous life as Sarah, I'd practically lived in high-end salons, just.. not at the end of the month. My hair had been a carefully constructed masterpiece, a testament to the power of keratin treatments and expertly applied highlights. Meanwhile, my male colleagues… well, let's just say their haircuts screamed "I work in tech and haven't seen a barber in six months." The standard-issue short-on-the-sides, slightly-longer-on-top, the universal "functional" style. It was a tragedy, a follicular wasteland. But not for me. If I was going to be a dude, I was going to be a stylish dude.

I located a swanky salon in Knightsbridge, the kind of place where the doormat probably cost more than my entire wardrobe at Privet Drive. The stylist’s eyes practically did a little cartoon boing when I walked in. I imagined they weren't used to seeing scrawny eleven-year-olds with lightning bolt scars demanding a "look."

"I need something manageable now, but with the potential for glorious growth," I explained, channeling my inner salon veteran. “A cut that looks equally dashing short and long. And for the love of all that is holy, teach me how to style it.”

The stylist, whose name was apparently Jean-Pierre (because of course it was), set to work. He wielded his scissors with the precision of a surgeon and the flair of a conductor leading an orchestra of hair. It was magic, alright, just the non-wand-waving variety. He tamed the wild Potter hair with artful snips and potions that smelled like heaven and probably cost a small fortune. The infamous cowlick at the back, that rebellious swirl of hair that had plagued Harry for years, actually worked with the style, giving it a touch of roguish charm instead of looking like I’d just stuck my finger in a light socket.

"Your hair has amazing texture," Jean-Pierre declared, fluffing a section. "Once it grows out, you could absolutely rock that rock star vibe you're going for."

I internally fist-pumped. Finally, a chance to embrace the long, flowing locks of wizarding legends like Sirius Black and Bill Weasley. No more boring back-and-sides for this wizard-in-training.

Jean-Pierre then launched into a detailed lecture on hair care, demonstrating the proper application of various products with the seriousness of a professor explaining quantum physics. I diligently took mental notes (and then magically transferred them to my self-refilling notebook, because why not?). I bought everything he recommended, shrinking it all down and storing it in my magic ring. Farewell, Aunt Petunia’s bargain-bin shampoo! Hello, salon-quality goodness!

Looking in the mirror, I almost did a double-take. It was still distinctly Potter-ish, but now it looked… intentional. Tousled, not tangled. The scar was still visible, but it wasn't screaming for attention. I looked like a young, slightly rebellious heir to a vast fortune (which, technically, I was).

"My former colleagues would spontaneously combust if they saw this," I muttered, picturing their horrified faces. They'd considered it a fashion emergency if someone wore anything other than a faded tech conference t-shirt. Their idea of "dressing up" was wearing a clean faded tech conference t-shirt.

As I left the salon, I caught my reflection in a shop window and grinned. The new Harry Potter looked like he was about to star in a wizarding boy band, not like he’d just escaped from a cupboard under the stairs. Now, the only challenge was maintaining this level of grooming at Privet Drive without the Dursleys suspecting I'd suddenly developed a deep and abiding interest in personal hygiene.

Though, honestly, with the ability to poof myself to London whenever I felt like it, the Dursleys’ opinions were rapidly becoming less relevant than the mating habits of Peruvian tree frogs.

After a truly transformative experience at the salon (finally, my hair behaved!), I was admiring a ridiculously expensive watch on Bond Street – the kind that probably told you the time on Mars – when BOOM.

My first thought, naturally, was "Death Eaters on Bond Street? Bit of a commute, even for them." Then I remembered I was in Muggle London, 1991 to be exact. The screams outside confirmed it wasn’t magical terrorism, but something decidedly more… modern.

I peered out the window and nearly choked on my imaginary crumpet. There, in the middle of perfectly normal, pre-internet London, was Tony Stark in a seriously dented Iron Man suit, battling what looked like a swarm of angry robotic wasps.

"What in the name of dial-up internet…?" I muttered. My past-life memories clicked into place: time travel. It had to be. But figuring out how Tony Stark had crash-landed in my past was going to have to wait. There were more pressing matters, like not getting squished by a rogue drone.

BOOM again. This was getting ridiculous. Civilians were scattering like startled pigeons, shop windows were exploding, and Iron Man was clearly having a bad day at the office. Without thinking (always a dangerous move), I dropped my age glamour – being a smaller target seemed prudent – but remained invisible. Safety first, even for time-traveling wizards.

"Protego Maxima!" I yelled, throwing up a shield the size of a double-decker bus just as a drone was about to laser-toast a group of fleeing shoppers. The energy beam bounced off my shield like a tennis ball off a brick wall, promptly turning the drone into scrap metal confetti.

Stark’s head snapped around, scanning for the invisible shield-wielding maniac. He looked thoroughly confused, which, considering the circumstances, was perfectly understandable.

I zipped through the chaos like a caffeinated ghost, rapid-firing spells like a coding ninja on a deadline:

"Reparo!" – Suddenly, Iron Man’s thrusters weren’t spitting sparks anymore. "Protego!" – Another shield, because falling debris is never a good look. "Arresto Momentum!" – A chunk of building the size of a small car was about to flatten a Mini Cooper. Not on my watch. "Reducto!" – Three drones spontaneously combusted in mid-air. It was like popping bubble wrap, but with more explosions.

Each spell flowed effortlessly, fueled by pure intent. It was like debugging code in my past life – identify the bug, apply the fix, move on. Surprisingly effective in combat.

Finally, I saw my chance. I gathered all my intent, channeling my inner Gandalf, and unleashed a massive "Finite Incantatem" combined with a magical EMP pulse. The remaining drones plummeted to the ground like overripe fruit.

The street went eerily quiet, save for the sputtering of Stark’s suit. I stayed invisible, but he was staring intently at my general location. He knew.

"Okay," he said, flipping up his faceplate, revealing a face that looked like it had just seen a unicorn riding a bicycle. "Either I’ve finally lost it, or I just got saved by… Harry Potter?"

I dropped the invisibility, but kept the smaller stature. No need to overwhelm him with my full, magically-enhanced adult physique just yet.

"Actually," I corrected, "you just got saved by magic. But yeah, I'm Harry Potter." I paused for dramatic effect. "Though I have to ask – aren’t you about 28 years early for this particular timeline?"

Stark blinked. "Timeline? Kid, I was chasing an arms dealer with some stolen Stark tech when things got… weird. Wait, did you say Harry Potter? Like, the books?"

"Like the very real, occasionally time-traveling wizard," I clarified, casting a quick "Episkey" at a small cut on his forehead. It vanished instantly. "Though I have to admit, this is a new one for me too. I don’t remember Tony Stark being on the syllabus for Magical History 101."

"Books? What books? And how did you do that shield thing? And fix my suit? And… did you just heal me?" He looked like he was about to short-circuit.

I glanced around at the growing crowd of bewildered onlookers and the wailing sirens in the distance. "Mr. Stark," I said, "I’d love to explain, but perhaps a less… public venue would be preferable? I know a great coffee shop just around the corner. They make a mean latte, and I can finish patching up your suit there. My treat." After all, what was a little time paradox between friends? Especially when one of them could summon a decent cappuccino.

"You're taking this surprisingly well," Tony said, eyeing me like I was a particularly perplexing science experiment. We were tucked away in a private corner of a ridiculously posh café, the kind where the napkins probably cost more than my entire Hogwarts uniform. I’d draped us in privacy wards and enough Notice-Me-Not charms to make us invisible to even the most determined rubberneckers, all while casually fixing his suit's mangled bits with some fancy wandless magic. It was like performing open-heart surgery on a toaster oven while simultaneously trying to blend into the wallpaper.

"Let's just say I have a… robust history with unexpected situations," I replied, taking a delicate sip of my latte (which, by the way, tasted suspiciously of unicorn tears). "Though I’ll admit, bumping into Tony Stark in 1991 London wasn’t exactly on my bingo card. Even for me."

"1991?" Tony nearly choked on his ridiculously tiny espresso. It looked like something a hummingbird would drink. "Kid, I was just in 2019…"

My eyebrows shot up so high they practically disappeared into my hairline. "2019? I… well, I died in 2025. Then woke up as Harry Potter. Long story."

We stared at each other, a pair of time-displaced oddballs trying to reconcile our drastically different realities. It was like a staring contest, but with existential dread.

"You're not just Harry Potter, are you?" Tony leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. "Those spells… the way you handled that rogue enchanted toaster oven back there… that wasn't beginner magic."

"I was Sarah Chen, software engineer extraordinaire from Seattle. Died in 2025, reborn here with all my memories intact. I’ve been using intent-based magic – basically, I just will things to happen instead of waving a stick and chanting gibberish. It’s like coding reality," I explained, demonstrating by casually levitating his tiny espresso cup. It wobbled precariously, threatening to spill its precious contents all over his impeccably tailored suit.

"A programmer reborn as Harry Potter who just saved Iron Man from a rogue electrical surge caused by a malfunctioning time-travel device disguised as a weapon," Tony muttered, shaking his head. "If I hadn’t personally wrestled a giant purple alien for some shiny rocks, I’d say this was the weirdest Tuesday of my life."

"Speaking of weird, and getting you back to your own time – any ideas?" I asked, steering the conversation back to the pressing issue of temporal displacement.

"The arms dealer I was dealing with had this… device," Tony said, pulling a mangled piece of tech from his suit. It looked like a cross between a Rubik’s Cube and a circuit board that had lost a fight with a badger. "Supposed to create localized wormholes for… uh… express weapons delivery. Didn’t exactly anticipate it sending me decades into the past of what’s apparently a fictional universe. For me, at least."

I examined the device, casting a few diagnostic spells. It hummed and sputtered like a disgruntled bumblebee. "The quantum signature is still flickering. I think I can combine some transfiguration – basically, magical engineering – with your tech knowledge to get you home."

"Magic and quantum mechanics," Tony mused, a grin spreading across his face. "Now that’s a combination I never expected to see outside of a bad sci-fi movie. Although, come to think of it..."

We spent the next hour hunched over the café table, surrounded by steaming cups and stray wires, my magic and his scientific expertise working in tandem. It was like a bizarre coding session, but with wands and multimeters. Finally, after a few near-explosions and a minor incident involving a transfigured sugar cube that briefly turned into a squirrel, a stable portal flickered to life. It looked like a shimmering rectangle of pure static, buzzing with barely contained energy.

"This should take you back to your exact departure point," I said, trying to sound confident. "The timeline implications are… well, let's just say it's best not to think about them too hard. You might give yourself a headache."

"Tell me about it," Tony said, standing up and brushing nonexistent crumbs off his suit. He hesitated, then turned back. "You know, if you ever figure out this whole time travel thing again, Stark Industries could seriously use someone who understands both coding and magic. Think of the applications!"

I smiled. "I’ll keep that in mind. Though I have a few pressing matters to attend to here first. Dark Lord to defeat, timeline to fix, you know how it goes."

"Been there, blown that up," Tony replied, stepping towards the portal. He paused again, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Hey, Sarah… Harry… whatever your name is. Good luck with your whole saving-the-world gig. Try not to break the space-time continuum, okay?"

"I’ll do my best," I said, waving as he stepped through the portal, which promptly vanished with a soft pop.

I sat back with my now-cold latte, wondering just how many more utterly bonkers surprises this new, magically enhanced life had in store for me. And whether they came with complimentary unicorn-tear lattes.

After the utterly bizarre encounter with Tony Stark (seriously, explaining that to anyone was going to be a nightmare), another, far more depressing thought smacked me in the face like a rogue bludger: Sirius. Oh, crud nuggets. I’d completely spaced on my godfather. This whole “reborn as Harry Potter” gig was proving to be a real organizational challenge. Where was my magical day planner?

The air in Azkaban wasn't just cold; it was aggressively, spitefully cold, like stepping into a freezer full of disappointed ghosts. It hit me like a rogue snowball to the face as I popped into Sirius's cell. My stomach did a dramatic flip-flop. There he was, Sirius Black, huddled on a threadbare mattress like a discarded sock puppet. His once-glorious black hair was a matted bird’s nest, his prison robes hung off him like he’d borrowed them from a scarecrow, and his face… oh, his face. It was gaunt, etched with years of misery, but even through the grime and despair, I could see glimpses of the handsome rogue he used to be. It was like finding a faded photograph of a rock star in a dusty attic.

His head snapped up, those grey eyes widening with a mixture of hope and utter disbelief. “Harry?” The word was a rusty croak, like a door hinge that hadn’t been oiled in decades. “How…?” He looked like he expected me to vanish at any moment, like a magical mirage conjured from his own desperate longing. I shuffled my feet, feeling incredibly awkward under his intense gaze. Even in his weakened state, his eyes held a sharp intelligence that reminded me why he'd been the brightest star in his Hogwarts year.

“How exactly did you get in here, Harry?” Sirius rasped, his voice still rough but laced with genuine curiosity. “Azkaban is supposed to be impenetrable. They say even Dumbledore himself couldn’t Apparate through these wards.”

Gulp. My brain scrambled for a plausible explanation. I knew every gruesome detail about Azkaban from the books—its location in the middle of the North Sea (talk about a terrible commute), the ominous black walls, the anti-Apparition jinxes, even the precise floor plan of Sirius’s cell, meticulously described during his epic escape. Maybe this encyclopedic knowledge of a fictional prison, combined with whatever cosmic force had flung me into this universe, was giving me some kind of magical cheat code. But explaining that to Sirius would sound… well, insane.

“Uh… accidental magic?” I offered weakly, attempting the wide-eyed, slightly bewildered look of an eleven-year-old who’d just accidentally turned his aunt into a badger.

Sirius let out a bark of laughter that echoed through the stone corridors, the first genuine laugh he’d had in years. It was a harsh, rusty sound, but it was laughter. “Accidental magic? Into Azkaban?” A flicker of his old mischievous spark returned to his eyes. “You’re definitely hiding something, pup. That’s not just accidental magic. But…” He gave me a knowing look. “I suppose we all have our secrets.”

I managed a relieved smile. The less I had to explain about my… unique circumstances, the better. Besides, I had bigger fish to fry. Namely, finding Peter Pettigrew and getting Sirius the heck out of this soul-sucking prison.

“I know you’re innocent,” I said softly, channeling all the conviction I could muster. I knew he was innocent, not just from the books, but from a deep, almost visceral understanding of his character. “About my parents’ death, about everything. It was Pettigrew who betrayed them, not you.” I was worried Sirius thought I was just another person who blamed him for my parents' death.

Tears welled in Sirius’s already sunken eyes. “James and Lily… I’m so sorry, Harry. I failed them. Failed you. I should have been the Secret Keeper…” He looked like a man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and that world was made of guilt and regret.

“No,” I said, reaching out and taking his ice-cold hand in mine. “You didn’t fail anyone. Pettigrew was the traitor, and I’m going to prove it. I’ll get you out of here, legally, I promise. But until then…”

I pulled a small pouch from my robes. “This is for you.” I held it up. “It’s… a magical tent. But it’s, uh… slightly bigger on the inside.”

I demonstrated how to expand it, and Sirius’s jaw dropped so dramatically I was worried it might detach. The “tent” unfolded into a luxurious mansion—a fully furnished bedroom with a proper bed (not a lumpy mattress!), a gleaming kitchen stocked with enough food to feed an army, a library overflowing with books, and even an indoor forest, complete with miniature trees and chirping birds. It was like a five-star hotel had spontaneously materialized in the middle of a maximum-security prison. The stark contrast was almost comical.

While Sirius was busy gawking at his new digs (I half-expected him to start redecorating), I scanned the grim corridors of Azkaban, then turned back to him with a serious expression. Even with the magical mansion buffering the worst of it, this place was still depressing.

“Listen,” I said urgently, pulling out an array of potion vials from my robes. They clinked together like a tiny, medicinal orchestra. “These are for you—nutrition potions, healing potions, strengthening solutions. You need to get healthy, Sirius. You’re too thin, and twelve years in here…” My voice cracked a little. I was starting to feel the weight of this whole situation.

Sirius picked up one of the vials, turning it over in his trembling hands. “Harry… how did you get all this?” He looked genuinely bewildered.

“Never you mind,” I said quickly, cutting him off. “I’ll come visit when I can, maybe even sneak you out for a bit so you don’t completely lose it in here. But you have to promise me you’ll take care of yourself while I work on your case.”

Then, trying to sound casual but watching his reaction closely, I asked, “By the way… which cells hold the other Death Eaters?” The effect was instantaneous. Sirius’s face went from grateful and bewildered to hard and wary. The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a cold, calculating look. It was a chilling reminder that beneath the years of suffering, the hunted, broken man, was a dangerous wizard. Did I just poked the hornet’s nest?

The effect was immediate. Sirius’s face went from grateful to full-on panic mode. “Harry, NO,” he hissed, grabbing my arm like I was about to jump off a cliff (which, considering Azkaban, wasn’t far off). “Whatever batty scheme you’ve cooked up, stop it right now. Those are real Death Eaters down there – Bellatrix, Dolohov, the Lestranges – they make Dementors look like fluffy kittens. Promise me you won’t go anywhere near their cells.”

“But I just want to–” I started, only to be cut off by a look that could curdle milk.

“NO,” Sirius barked, channeling his inner, overprotective, dog-father. For a fleeting second, I saw the guardian he was supposed to be, not the haunted, skeletal prisoner he’d become. “You’ve done more than enough just showing up. I won’t have you playing tag with those monsters. Promise me, Harry. Swear on Merlin’s saggy left sock.”

I sighed internally. My plan was to do some reconnaissance, scope out the prison layout, maybe even plant a few strategically placed whoopee cushions for future… unpleasantries. But Sirius was already in full protective dad mode, despite looking like he could be blown over by a stiff breeze.

“Alright, alright, I promise,” I mumbled, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Just focus on getting your strength back. I’ll handle… everything else.”

Sirius still looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, but he nodded, clutching the potions like they were the last chocolate frogs in existence. “You’re so much like your mother sometimes,” he murmured, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “She was always trying to fix everything, too. Even things that didn't need fixing, like my hair after a particularly vigorous Quidditch match.”

“Sirius,” I said, adopting a mischievous grin that I knew would remind him of James (and probably give him flashbacks to exploding toilets), “I can’t just leave without giving those charming individuals a little… parting gift. If you’re really worried,” I added with a wink, “you can come along. It’ll be just like old times, except with fewer detentions and more existential dread.” Before Sirius could even sputter a protest, we were suddenly standing outside his cell, the cold stone of Azkaban pressing in around us. Sirius nearly had a stroke, trying to figure out how I’d managed that. Had I bribed a Dementor with chocolate?

I then produced an arsenal of pranking weaponry that made Sirius’s jaw drop and his inner Marauder do a jig. Dungbombs (the extra-stinky kind), enchanted fireworks that looked suspiciously like they’d been smuggled out of Zonko’s, and a few other questionable items that I’d “acquired” (let’s just say I have a knack for finding things). His gaunt face lit up with the first genuine smile I’d seen in years. It was like Christmas, his birthday, and the anniversary of the Great Hogwarts Food Fight all rolled into one.

“Let them experience ten times the misery they inflicted on you in this dungeon,” I whispered, practically shoving a handful of dungbombs into his trembling hands. “Just a tiny bit of payback before I leave. Pretty please with sugar quills on top?”

Sirius’s POV

Holding the pranking supplies felt like a jolt of pure adrenaline. This was exactly what James would have done. My godson was a true Marauder, a chip off the old block, a… well, you get the idea.

As we crept towards the Death Eaters’ cells, their usual chorus of insults and threats echoed through the corridor. But their taunts died in their throats when Harry transformed. Not into a dog, not a stag, but a magnificent phoenix, its feathers blazing with gold and crimson light.

I just stared, my brain short-circuiting. My eleven-year-old godson had not only broken into Azkaban, but he was an Animagus? And a phoenix? That was like winning the magical lottery while simultaneously being struck by lightning (in a good way, mostly). I decided to stop trying to make sense of things and just embrace the beautiful, chaotic madness. It was the Marauder way, after all.

With renewed vigor, I began lobbing dungbombs and setting off fireworks. Bellatrix’s ear-splitting shriek as a particularly pungent dungbomb exploded right in her face was sweeter than any butterbeer I’d ever had. The magical fireworks danced and multiplied, turning the grim prison block into a chaotic light show. It was like a demented New Year’s Eve celebration, only with more screaming and less champagne.

“If only James could see you now,” I whispered, watching Harry (or rather, the magnificent phoenix) circle above me. The Death Eaters’ howls of rage echoed through the corridors, but for the first time in twelve years, I was the one laughing. I felt… alive.

After our little… “redecorating” spree, the Death Eaters were now thoroughly coated in dung, dodging persistent magical fireworks, and generally having a terrible time.

“Right, we should probably head back,” I said, transforming back into my decidedly less-feathery human form. Becoming a phoenix using my intent magic was ridiculously easy. I wondered what other mythical creatures I could try. A griffin? A hippogriff? Maybe a miniature, fire-breathing hamster? “Come on, Sirius, before the guards notice we’ve turned their maximum-security prison into a magical circus.” Honestly, even if Dementors showed up, I wasn't too worried. If only I could tell Sirius that. But for now, it was best to keep my cards close to my chest.

Back in Sirius’s cell (or rather, his magically expanded and ridiculously comfortable tent), he collapsed onto a plush armchair, still grinning like a Cheshire cat who’d just swallowed a canary. “That was… that was brilliant, Harry. Absolutely brilliant. But… how? How did you learn to become an Animagus? And a phoenix? That’s… that’s unheard of!”

I just gave him a mysterious smile. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me yet, Padfoot. But we’ll have plenty of time for explanations later. For now, focus on getting better. Take the potions, relax in the tent, and try not to get any more… unwanted visitors. I’ll visit whenever I can.”

“Wait,” Sirius said, grabbing my arm as I turned to leave. His eyes were shining with unshed tears. “Thank you. Not just for the tent and the potions, but for… for making me feel like myself again. For a moment there, pranking those Death Eaters, it was like being back at Hogwarts with your father. It was like… like I wasn’t just a broken man rotting away in this awful place.”

I hugged him tightly, trying to ignore the lump forming in my throat. Even thin and weakened, Sirius’s embrace felt… right. He was the only family I had in this life, the only connection to my parents. The thought made the loss of my previous family sting even more. “It’s okay, Sirius,” I whispered. “We’ll make new memories. And next time,” I added with a mischievous glint in my eye, “we’ll bring even better pranks".

With that promise hanging in the air, I vanished, leaving Sirius in his magically enhanced cell, his heart lighter than it had been in twelve long years. He had hope again. And that, I realized, was worth more than all the gold in Gringotts. Even if it involved a little (or a lot) of rule-breaking and dungbomb-related mayhem.

Sirius stared at the now-empty space where Harry had just stood, the air still buzzing with residual magic. It was like a bomb of comfort had detonated in the middle of Azkaban’s dreary landscape, leaving behind this… this palace. He ran a hand along the polished wood paneling of the tent’s entrance, half expecting it to dissolve into cold stone. Nope. Still wood. And not just any wood—it looked like it had been polished by house-elves with obsessive-compulsive disorder.

The main living area was a cozy sitting room straight out of a wizarding home magazine. Plush armchairs begged to be sunk into, a fireplace crackled merrily (he hadn’t felt real warmth in twelve years), and bookshelves overflowed with everything from trashy Quidditch romances to texts on advanced theoretical magic that made his brain itch in a good way. He even spotted a first edition of Hogwarts: A History that he’d nicked from his mother’s library as a kid. The guilt was fleeting, replaced by a surge of… something akin to happiness.

Each room he wandered into was more ridiculous than the last. The kitchen was a culinary wet dream, gleaming copper pots hanging from the ceiling, a pantry stocked with magically preserved everything. He spent a solid five minutes just staring at an apple, trying to remember what fresh tasted like. The bathroom… oh, the bathroom. A massive clawfoot tub with taps that probably dispensed everything from bubble bath to unicorn tears, fluffy towels that felt like clouds, and a mirror that, blessedly, didn’t offer unsolicited commentary on his gaunt, prison-chic appearance. The thought of a hot bath made his knees weak.

Then he stumbled into the indoor forest. Indoor forest. It stretched impossibly upwards and outwards, defying all laws of physics and common sense. Real trees reached towards a magically projected blue sky (complete with fluffy, cartoonish clouds), real grass tickled his bare feet, and a babbling brook meandered through the undergrowth. He even saw a broomstick leaning casually against an oak, as if it was perfectly normal to have a Quidditch pitch inside a tent inside a prison.

He collapsed onto the soft grass, inhaling the scent of damp earth and… were those wildflowers? He transformed into Padfoot, rolling around in the grass with unrestrained joy, barking his head off like a lunatic. Then, he shifted back, tears streaming down his face, a mix of relief, disbelief, and the overwhelming realization that this wasn’t just a hideout—it was a slice of stolen freedom.

Near the ridiculously comfortable bed (complete with a mattress that felt like sleeping on a cloud of kittens), he found the potions Harry had left. Each one was meticulously labeled with instructions that looked suspiciously like code comments. "Oh harry...".

That night, Sirius Black slept in a real bed for the first time in twelve years. He slept soundly.

The next few days were a blur of exploration. Sirius was living a double life of epic proportions: incarcerated in Azkaban’s worst, yet chilling in what could only be described as a magical five-star resort. He spent hours as Padfoot, tearing around the indoor forest, rediscovering the simple joy of running without the threat of Dementors. He even tried flying the broomstick a few times, resulting in some near-disastrous encounters with the magically extended branches.

By the end of the first month, he’d discovered a hidden talent: cooking. The kitchen became his sanctuary. He started with simple recipes from the cookbooks Harry had provided, but soon he was improvising, whipping up elaborate meals that would have made even Molly Weasley proud. He’d chuckle to himself, imagining James’s reaction: “Snivellus making potions? Fine. But Sirius Black baking a soufflé? The world’s gone mad!”

The combination of proper food, exercise, and actual sleep was doing wonders. His ribs were no longer visible, his hair was clean and (somewhat) tamed, and he was starting to resemble the handsome rogue he once was. He even found a pair of magically adjusting glasses in a drawer, which made reading the ridiculously dense magical texts much easier.

He developed a routine: morning exercise (including some questionable Quidditch practice), afternoons spent deciphering magical theory or practicing spells with a spare wand he’d found (he’d stopped questioning the sheer abundance of magical supplies), and evenings dedicated to culinary masterpieces. The contrast between his luxurious existence and the screams and clanging from the prison outside was so absurd it often sent him into fits of slightly hysterical laughter, especially when the lingering smell of dungbombs drifted in from the outside world.

One afternoon, while attempting a particularly challenging crème brûlée (seriously, a culinary torch?), Sirius decided he was officially the most pampered prisoner in history. The thought was so ridiculous he almost choked on his own laughter.

Months blurred into each other. The tent wasn’t just a prison; it was a self-contained ecosystem. He’d started a herb garden in a sunny corner of the forest, and it was thriving. He’d never considered himself a gardener, but there was something oddly satisfying about nurturing basil, thyme, and even rare magical herbs.

The potion-making station was another rabbit hole of fascination. Harry had stocked it with everything imaginable, from mundane ingredients to substances he’d only read about in the most advanced texts. Brewing potions became a form of meditation, the precise measurements and careful stirring a welcome distraction from the lingering trauma of Azkaban.

The tent’s resources were seemingly endless. The pantry restocked itself, potion ingredients magically reappeared, and new books materialized on the shelves as if by magic. He even found new clothes in his size appearing in the wardrobe, and a fully equipped training room materialized one day complete with self-repairing dummies.

“It’s like having unlimited access to Diagon Alley… and then some,” he muttered one afternoon, discovering a set of enchanted gardening shears that pruned themselves. “Harry, I'm not sure if this is just the tent or your bizarre magic that make me amazed till now". Each new discovery deepened the mystery of his godson. The sophisticated enchantments, the sheer volume of supplies, the seemingly limitless resources… it was beyond anything even the oldest, wealthiest pureblood families could manage. It was like Harry had somehow hacked the very fabric of magic itself.

Sirius shook his head, a mixture of awe, concern, and a growing sense that he was in way over his head. But he pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on getting stronger, healthier, ready for whatever crazy plan Harry had cooked up. Because one thing was certain: with a godson like that, life was never going to be boring again. 

Picking up a nutrition potion, he whispered to the empty air, “James… Lily… finally, I met your other son. I don’t understand half of this, but I swear, I’ll be ready for him.” 

Sirius was poking around what seemed to be the tent’s infinite storage room when he stumbled upon something that stopped him dead: a sleek, black rectangle he vaguely recognized from his brief, disastrous forays into the Muggle world – a television.

“What in Merlin’s name…?” he breathed, approaching it like it might bite. Next to it was a detailed instruction manual, “How to Use Your TV – Wizard’s Edition,” in Harry’s ridiculously neat handwriting, along with a “DVD player” (whatever that was) and stacks of movie cases.

The manual explained everything in excruciating detail: how to power it with magic (because electricity was apparently beneath them now), how to use the remote (which looked like a miniature wand with too many buttons), and even a section titled “Why Your Pureblood Prejudices About Muggle Entertainment Are Wrong.”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter. The more time he spent in this magically-expanded prison-turned-luxury-apartment, the more his godson resembled a tiny, meticulous, slightly obsessive genius. Not only had Harry somehow managed to make Muggle technology work in a place where magic usually short-circuited it, but he’d also provided entertainment to prevent Sirius from going completely bonkers. Clearly, Harry had never experienced Sirius bored. It was a force of nature.

Following the instructions (which involved far too much wand-waving for something that looked so simple), he got the TV working and shoved in his first “movie” – something called “Star Wars.” As the opening crawl began, accompanied by music that sounded like a choir of trumpeting hippogriffs, Sirius sank into a plush armchair, completely bewildered.

Hours later, he was still there, having devoured the entire original trilogy. His mind was a whirlwind of spaceships, laser swords (lightsabers, apparently), and the baffling question of whether Muggles actually had any of this stuff. He found himself drawing parallels between the Jedi and wizards, wondering if Harry had chosen these films specifically to mess with his head.

“A TV in Azkaban,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “James would have lost his mind. Harry, you magnificent little weirdo.”

Between the endless stream of Muggle entertainment, his burgeoning career as Azkaban’s resident prankster, and his personal mission to drive the Death Eaters completely insane, Sirius was… well, he was having a rather good time, all things considered. His days had settled into a comfortable routine that would have been unthinkable just months before.

He’d often spend entire afternoons sprawled on the couch, lost in the world of Muggle television. He developed a disturbing fondness for daytime talk shows, though he’d rather be cursed by a thousand Bogarts than admit how invested he was in the dramatic love lives of people he’d never met. The very concept of television still boggled his mind – Muggles had created moving pictures that told entire stories without a single flick of a wand! It was almost… unsettling.

In his makeshift laboratory (a corner of the tent he’d claimed and littered with potion ingredients and half-finished projects), Sirius channeled his inner Marauder, creating increasingly elaborate pranks. He combined his surprisingly decent potion skills (thanks to Harry’s detailed instructions) with his natural talent for mischief, creating dungbombs that multiplied exponentially when hit with Scourgify and jinxed sweets that made the eater speak exclusively in badger noises for hours. The Death Eaters’ furious reactions were the highlight of his week, providing him with endless amusement and a soundtrack of impotent rage.

One day, while rummaging in the storage room (which seemed to have a TARDIS-like quality of being bigger on the inside), Sirius found something that made him freeze: mountains of shrunken treasure. Gold galleons, Sickles, and Knuts from every magical community imaginable, along with mountains of precious gems, ancient artifacts, and even rolls of Muggle money, all piled haphazardly amongst spare towels and cleaning supplies. The sheer, casual display of wealth was enough to make a goblin faint.

“If Harry tries to take this tent back,” Sirius muttered, examining a miniaturized crown that looked suspiciously like it belonged to a long-dead elven king, “I’m barricading myself in. Let’s see him try to evict a fully-grown Animagus in dog form. He’d need a Howler the size of a hippogriff.”

The tent was no longer just a hiding place; it was his home, his sanctuary, his personal playground. Every day brought new discoveries: hidden rooms, more treasure, or simply the sheer, glorious absurdity of watching Muggle television while technically imprisoned in Azkaban.

And if the guards ever heard the faint sounds of explosions, car chases, or the occasional burst of opera music coming from his cell, they wisely chose to ignore it. After all, what were they going to do? Write him up?

Sirius had discovered something truly hilarious about his situation: the Dementors were, to put it mildly, not the sharpest tools in the shed. From the comfort of his magically expanded tent, he’d begun studying their habits, observing them with the detached curiosity of a zoologist studying particularly depressing slugs.

“They can’t even tell I’m not miserable anymore,” he chuckled one evening, sprawled on his couch with a bowl of magically-popped popcorn (Harry had thought of everything) while watching Die Hard for the fifth time. The Dementors would glide past his cell, presumably hoping to suck up some delicious despair, but the tent’s enchantments seemed to completely mask his actual emotional state.

It was almost farcical. Outside his cell, a Dementor would hover, trying to drain happiness that simply wasn’t there, while inside, Sirius was whipping up a gourmet meal or tending to his thriving herb garden (he suspected Harry had charmed the soil to be perpetually fertile). The creatures seemed utterly incapable of processing this discrepancy. They just went through the motions, floating past at regular intervals, never realizing that their most notorious prisoner was living the high life.

Even more entertaining was their reaction to his pranks on the Death Eaters. The Dementors would drift aimlessly through the chaos of exploding toilets, self-folding laundry, and miniature pixies that had been trained to deliver wedgies, completely oblivious to the mayhem. They’d even float right through his specially engineered pranking fog, their dark robes collecting the glitter he’d added to his latest batch of enchanted itching powder. Sirius imagined them shimmering in the moonlight like morbid disco balls.

“Honestly,” he mused, watching a particularly sparkly Dementor drift past while he sipped a cup of Earl Grey that tasted suspiciously like it had been brewed by a professional tea master, “all that terrifying reputation, and they can’t even figure out why Bellatrix keeps spontaneously breaking into the Macarena.”

The realization that Azkaban’s supposedly fearsome guards were essentially magical airheads had done wonders for his morale. Between his ridiculously comfortable accommodations and the Dementors’ complete lack of awareness, Sirius was starting to think of his imprisonment as a rather bizarre, if slightly depressing, all-inclusive vacation.

Six months into his… let’s call it “extended stay,” Sirius found himself staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror in his tent’s surprisingly luxurious bathroom. He barely recognized the man staring back. The gaunt, haunted prisoner of Azkaban was gone. In his place was someone who could have stepped straight out of his Hogwarts days – perhaps even more dashing.

His black hair, now impeccably conditioned (thanks to Harry’s frankly excessive hair care potions), cascaded to his shoulders. His hollow cheeks had filled out, and his skin had a healthy glow that was frankly alarming, considering he hadn’t seen actual sunlight in months. He had to admit, Harry’s insistence on a strict skincare regime had paid off. It had seemed ridiculous at first – all those tiny bottles and jars with labels like “Hydrating Elixir of the Midnight Bloom” and “Rejuvenating Serum of the Whispering Winds,” accompanied by a letter explaining the precise order of application – but the results were undeniable. He looked younger than he had in years.

Picking up the letter from his bedside table (which was made of polished oak and looked suspiciously like it belonged in a manor house), Sirius reread Harry’s instructions: “Use the silver potion before the gold one, never mix the purple cream with the blue serum (unless you want to turn into a temporary newt), and always apply the moonflower essence at night…” The sheer detail was both hilarious and incredibly touching. His godson had thought of everything, even including anti-aging properties in the potions to reverse the damage Azkaban had inflicted. The kid was a walking magical pharmacy.

But as he studied his reflection, a wave of melancholy washed over him. September 1st was fast approaching. Harry would be going to Hogwarts for the first time. Sirius should have been there, at Platform 9¾, embarrassing him with loud cheers and giving him last-minute advice about secret passages and which professors to avoid. He could picture it perfectly – helping Harry with his trunk (which was probably charmed to be lighter than a feather, knowing Harry), giving him a wink and a reassuring pat on the shoulder, watching with pride as he boarded the Hogwarts Express…

“At least he won’t have to deal with a completely deranged godfather when I finally get out,” Sirius murmured, running a hand through his ridiculously glossy hair. “Although,” he added with a wry smile, “I still have absolutely no idea how an eleven-year-old managed to create a pocket dimension complete with a fully stocked apothecary and anti-aging skincare. Honestly, the kid was a walking paradox – a tiny, bespectacled genius with a penchant for Muggle technology and a worrying level of organization.

He turned away from the mirror, a sigh escaping his lips. He headed towards the kitchen area of the tent, which, he noted with a fresh wave of bewildered amusement, was larger and better equipped than the kitchen he’d shared with James in their student days. He decided to bake something. Cooking, he’d discovered, was a surprisingly therapeutic activity, and it kept his mind occupied. Besides, he had a new prank brewing for Bellatrix that involved self-inflating trousers and a particularly catchy polka tune, and he needed some time to perfect the timing.

As he mixed the ingredients for what Harry’s notes described as “Muggle brownies” (apparently a chocolate-based confection that was dangerously addictive), he thought about Harry. He imagined him on the train, surrounded by other first-years, probably already explaining the finer points of transfiguration or debating the merits of different broomstick models. A pang of longing hit him. He desperately wanted to be there, to witness this important milestone in Harry’s life.

The morning of September 1st dawned bright and clear, just as Sirius was rescuing a batch of slightly-too-crispy brownies from the tent’s oven. Baking had become his coping mechanism – a way to channel his restless energy and avoid thinking too much about the fact that he was, technically, still a fugitive.

Suddenly, Harry materialized in the kitchen, making Sirius nearly drop the entire tray. “Harry!” he exclaimed, his heart leaping into his throat. “I thought you’d be… at Platform 9 ¾!”

Harry grinned, plopping down into one of the kitchen chairs and eyeing the brownies with undisguised hunger. “Changed my plans. Thought I’d pop in first, then apparate directly to Hogwarts. I’ll just blend in with the first years when they arrive by boat. It’ll be dramatically understated.”

Sirius stared, genuinely flabbergasted. “You know,” he said, carefully plating the brownies, “most kids would be having a nervous breakdown about their first day at Hogwarts. You’re casually planning to apparate onto school grounds. That’s… ambitious.” He paused, suddenly feeling oddly domestic as he arranged the brownies on a plate. “Er… milk? I made them with Lily’s favorite recipe… found it in one of the cookbooks you… left.” The word felt strange in his mouth. Left. As if Harry had just popped out for a quick errand.

“You’ve gone full mum,” Harry teased, accepting both a brownie and a glass of milk with a grateful sigh. “Look at you – baking brownies, wearing an apron, all… presentable.” Harry’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “I almost don’t recognize you.”

Sirius flushed slightly, hastily untying the apron (which, he had to admit, was surprisingly comfortable). “I’m not… I just thought… well, you might want something for the journey.” He bustled around the kitchen, magically packing extra brownies into a container. “And for your information, I’ve also been inventing new pranking products. So I’m not completely domesticated.” He gestured to a corner of the tent, where various bubbling potions and strange contraptions sat on a workbench.

“Sure, sure,” Harry chuckled, already halfway through his second brownie. “These are amazing, by the way. Think I could take a few extra? And maybe shrink that container a bit? It's a bit bulky for my robes."

Watching his godson devour the brownies with such obvious enjoyment, Sirius felt a strange mix of pride and a sharp pang of melancholy. He should be at the platform, amongst the other parents, offering awkward words of encouragement and trying not to cry. Instead, he was here, in this magically-expanded tent, sharing a quiet moment that felt both incredibly precious and painfully inadequate.

“Just… be careful with whatever convoluted plan you’ve concocted for sneaking into Hogwarts,” he said, trying to sound responsible despite his own history of spectacularly ill-conceived school entrances. “And remember, if you need anything…”

“I know where to find you,” Harry finished, standing up and accepting the now-shrunken container of brownies. “In your five-star Azkaban suite, probably watching Muggle explosions or devising new methods of psychological torture for Bellatrix.”

“So,” Sirius began, watching Harry wander around the tent with a look of impressed curiosity, “where exactly are you planning to enter Hogwarts from? Do you even know where the best clandestine entrance is?”

Harry paused at Sirius’s potion workstation, his eyes widening at the chaotic yet meticulously organized setup. Carefully labeled vials lined the shelves, each containing a uniquely modified pranking potion. Notes in Sirius’s elegant handwriting detailed various experimental combinations, their potential effects, and even risk assessments (something Sirius had never bothered with in his youth).

“Sirius,” Harry breathed, picking up a vial filled with a shimmering, iridescent liquid, “this is… brilliant! You’ve basically created an entirely new branch of potions science here. The way you’ve modified traditional formulas, combined different magical effects… you’re like a magical researcher!”

Sirius rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “It’s just… pranking stuff,” he mumbled, feeling a warmth spread through his chest that he hadn’t felt in years.

“No, really,” Harry insisted, growing more animated. “Look at your notes – you’re using actual scientific methodology! Hypothesis, controlled testing, detailed documentation of results…” Harry’s voice suddenly took on a sharp edge of anger. “And they just threw you in here without a trial, wasting all this potential. Even at Hogwarts, they just saw your pranks as troublemaking, didn’t they? Nobody recognized that you were essentially conducting advanced magical experiments.”

Sirius had never considered his pranks in that light before. They were fun, a way to blow off steam, a way to rebel against the rules. But looking at his workstation through Harry’s eyes, he saw something different. Each modification, each combination, was carefully calculated, precisely balanced. He had, in essence, been doing complex magical research and development, just applied to making Severus Snape’s hair turn bright pink or causing Filch to break into spontaneous jigs.

“You’re like a magical scientist who never got the chance to be recognized as one,” Harry said softly, his eyes filled with a mixture of admiration and frustration. “But don’t worry,” he added with a sudden grin, switching topics with characteristic abruptness, “we’re going to fix that. As for your question…” He tapped his nose conspiratorially. “I figure I’ll apparate to the edge of the lake, then blend in with the first years during the boat ride. I’ve read enough about Hogwarts to have a pretty good mental map.”

The casual way Harry mentioned apparating to Hogwarts – a feat considered impossible within the castle’s grounds – sent a shiver down Sirius’s spine. It was yet another reminder that his godson was far more than he appeared. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of magical talent and Muggle ingenuity, and Sirius had a growing suspicion that he was about to turn the wizarding world upside down. And honestly? Sirius couldn’t wait to watch.

The Great Hall had seen its fair share of oddities. Exploding cauldrons in Potions, rogue Cornish pixies wreaking havoc during Lockhart’s tenure, even a troll rampaging through the dungeons (that one was a classic). But tonight? Tonight was something else entirely. It all started when Professor McGonagall called out, “Potter, Harry.” Instead of a nervous first-year shuffling forward, there was a pop – a sound usually reserved for Apparition, which was definitely not something first-years were supposed to be doing, especially not inside Hogwarts.

Suddenly, there he was: Harry Potter, standing right next to the Sorting Stool, looking about as surprised as a fish out of water. The hall went silent. Even the ghosts, who were usually too busy arguing about whose death was more tragic, paused their spectral squabbles to stare. It was like someone had hit the giant magical pause button.

Potter, bless his soul, didn’t miss a beat. He just sat down and plonked the Sorting Hat on his head. That’s when things got really interesting.

The Hat, a venerable old artifact that had sorted generations of witches and wizards, began to… well, it sputtered. Not a dramatic pronouncement of “GRYFFINDOR!” or “SLYTHERIN!”, but a series of confused noises, like a rusty engine trying to start.

From the Great Hall’s perspective, it was like watching a wizard try to cast a spell with a broken wand. The Hat’s voice, usually booming and confident, sounded tinny and bewildered. “What… what is this?” it echoed, not into the hall, but seemingly into Potter’s mind. “I cannot… there are walls. Strong ones. Like… like trying to read a book written in… in Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs while wearing a blindfold. And earplugs.”

Then, the really strange thing happened. The Hat started to glow. Not a threatening, ominous glow, but a sparkly, shimmering pink glow. The Great Hall had never seen anything like it. It was like someone had bedazzled the poor thing.

From what the Hall could gather (eavesdropping on the mental conversation, a perk of being a sentient magical space), Potter was having a bit of fun. He was, apparently, mentally redecorating the Hat. The pink glow intensified, joined by shimmering glitter that danced across the Hat’s surface. It looked like a magical disco ball.

“Now see here, young… whatever you are,” the Hat huffed, its voice now laced with indignation. “This is most irregular! I am a thousand-year-old magical artifact, imbued with the wisdom of the Founders themselves!”

The Hall could practically feel Potter’s mental response: a cheerful, “And I’m highly irregular myself,” followed by even more glitter. The Weasley twins at the Gryffindor table erupted in applause, their whoops echoing through the bewildered silence. The Hall had to admit, it was rather entertaining.

“I demand you lower these mental barriers at once!” the Hat pleaded, sounding increasingly desperate. The pink glitter pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat.

The Hall sensed a mental shrug from Potter, followed by the distinct impression of a virtual biscuit and a tiny cup of tea being offered to the Hat. The sheer audacity!

Up at the staff table, the professors were a sight to behold. McGonagall looked like she was about to spontaneously combust from sheer stress. Dumbledore, however, had a strange expression on his face – a mixture of concern, bewilderment, and something that looked suspiciously like amusement.

“This is… unprecedented,” the Hat announced to the hall, its voice now laced with a hint of hysteria. “I… I find myself quite unable to perform my designated task. The mind before me is… inaccessible. It is as if one were attempting to decipher the secrets of the universe with a… a blunt spoon.”

The murmurs in the hall intensified. The Hall had never experienced such a complete and utter failure of the Sorting. It was a crisis of magical proportions.

“Surely,” McGonagall managed, her voice strained, “you must be able to make some determination?”

“Unless these… these quite extraordinary mental fortifications are lowered,” the Hat said primly, still radiating pink glitter, “I simply cannot. I am designed to assess character and potential, to glimpse the inner workings of a student’s mind. This… this impenetrable fortress prevents me from doing so. And I must add,” it continued with a distinct sniff, “I find this… this frivolous embellishment quite… distressing. It does not suit me at all.”

The Weasley twins were now rolling on the floor with laughter, joined by other students who could no longer contain themselves. Potter, meanwhile, yawned. Yawned! As if this whole debacle was putting him to sleep.

The professors were at a loss. Even Dumbledore looked like he was considering consulting a Muggle encyclopedia for answers. The ancient magic of the Sorting Hat, a cornerstone of Hogwarts tradition, had been utterly defeated by… well, by whatever Harry Potter was. The Great Hall, despite the seriousness of the situation, couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement. This was definitely going to be a year to remember. And the feast? Well, it was definitely getting cold.

It bloody hurt. One minute I was mentally sparring with a sentient hat about interior decorating, the next it felt like someone had shoved a white-hot poker into my brain. I nearly screamed. It was a raw, searing pain that made my vision blur and my knees buckle. SQUIRREL! How dare you? The thought echoed through my mind, a furious roar that momentarily drowned out the pain. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to remain standing, to maintain the carefully cultivated air of detached amusement. I am Harry Potter. I do not scream. I do not flinch. I certainly do not let possessed professors see me sweat.

But gods, it was painful. This wasn’t just a mental prod; it was a full-blown assault, a violation of the carefully constructed walls I’d erected around my mind. It felt like… like being burned from the inside out. My carefully constructed Occlumency shields were holding, barely, but I could feel them straining under the pressure. I could help. I needed to help. A dangerous anger, colder and sharper than any I’d ever felt before, settled over me. My gaze, previously fixed on the Sorting Hat, snapped to Quirrell. Or rather, to Voldemort. I wasn’t afraid, not exactly. Fear was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now. But the pain… the sheer, agonizing pain… it fueled a burning rage within me. If only Sirius were here. He’d know what to do. He’d probably have a witty quip ready, something to break the tension, something to make this whole nightmare a little less unbearable. But Sirius wasn’t here. It was just me, facing down a Dark Lord clinging to the back of a stuttering professor’s head, in the middle of the Great Hall, during my own Sorting. This was officially the worst first day of school ever.

-----------

Now that the immediate crisis had passed – the whole Voldemort-on-a-professor’s-head debacle, which, let’s be honest, was a bit of a mood killer – I finally had a moment to appreciate the Great Hall. The enchanted ceiling was even more breathtaking in person than I remembered from the books. A perfect mirror of the night sky, with stars twinkling through wisps of cloud. My inner programmer immediately kicked in, analyzing the spellwork. The intent-based enchantment I’d developed for my bedroom ceiling back in Privet Drive (a humble attempt at bringing the night sky indoors) would need some serious upgrades to achieve this level of detail and atmospheric accuracy. The basic principles should transfer, though. Maybe if I tweaked the spatial mapping parameters and added a few…

A flash of pink interrupted my mental tinkering. The Sorting Hat, still sporting its vibrant new hue, was now perched on Hermione Granger’s head. I suppressed a smile as the Hat promptly yelled, “GRYFFINDOR!” The pink was holding up remarkably well. I’d suspected even Dumbledore would have trouble reversing it. The spell matrix I’d woven into the transformation wasn’t just a simple color change; it was a complex network of interlocking enchantments, each layer “coded” with specific magical signatures that reinforced each other. It was like a magical version of digital watermarking, embedding the color change so deeply it was almost impossible to remove without dismantling the entire structure. The magical theory behind it was infinitely more interesting than any JPEG encoding, I mused.

The Sorting continued, each name called by Professor McGonagall bringing its own little drama. It was fascinating to witness firsthand, rather than just reading about it. “Longbottom, Neville” spent what felt like an eternity under the Hat, prompting a flurry of nervous whispers from the other first-years. When the Hat finally shouted “GRYFFINDOR!”, Neville practically sprinted to the table, still wearing the Hat, before sheepishly jogging back to return it, his face a delightful shade of crimson. Draco Malfoy, when his name was called, barely had the Hat touch his perfectly coiffed hair before it bellowed “SLYTHERIN!” He looked considerably less smug than his book counterpart, though, shooting frequent, wary glances in my direction. I’d clearly thrown a wrench in his carefully crafted “pureblood prince” persona.

When “Weasley, Ron” was called, I watched with particular interest. This whole evening had already veered wildly off-script from the timeline I remembered, and I was curious to see how it would affect the formation of the Golden Trio. The Hat took a bit longer with Ron than in the books, muttering something about “great courage” and “a distinct lack of ambition,” before finally proclaiming “GRYFFINDOR!” Ron looked immensely relieved as he joined his brothers, but like everyone else, kept stealing glances at the Ravenclaw table where I sat, the resident pink-hatted, Voldemort-exposing, accidental-apparition-into-the-Great-Hall weirdo.

The whole experience felt surreal – like watching a familiar play where the actors had suddenly decided to improvise, yet the show somehow went on. The enchanted candles floating overhead cast dancing shadows across the faces of my new schoolmates, each of them still buzzing with nervous energy from the earlier… incident. At the staff table, Dumbledore had returned to his seat, though his eyes remained sharp and alert, occasionally flicking towards the doors and windows, as if expecting another unexpected intrusion. Snape had vanished, presumably to deal with the fallout of the Quirrell situation (and perhaps to soothe his own undoubtedly throbbing Dark Mark). Professor Flitwick, bless his tiny, enthusiastic heart, was attempting to repair some of the scorch marks on the walls while also keeping a watchful eye on his newest Ravenclaw – me. I could practically feel his academic curiosity radiating across the hall. He was probably already planning a series of “completely voluntary” discussions on advanced charm work.

I allowed myself a small, internal sigh of relief. All things considered, the evening had gone rather well. Quirrell had been exposed, Voldemort’s continued existence had been revealed to the wizarding world far earlier than in the original timeline, and I’d landed in Ravenclaw, where I’d have the best access to the library and other resources I needed. The pink Hat was just a bonus – though I did rather hope they’d keep it that way for at least a few more Sortings. It added a certain festive touch to the proceedings. It was also, I realised with a jolt of nervous amusement, a constant, shimmering reminder of my accidental grand entrance. And that, I suspected, would be a source of endless amusement for the Weasley twins. Oh dear.

In Dumbledore’s office, the air crackled with unspoken tension. Professor Flitwick, perched on a precarious stack of cushions (he seemed to have abandoned the book-stacking method after a near-disastrous tumble earlier), recounted his conversation with Harry. Dumbledore listened intently, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression a carefully neutral mask.

“A Seer?” Flitwick offered, though his tone was laced with doubt. He adjusted his spectacles nervously. “His knowledge of future events… it bears a superficial resemblance to prophecy. Yet… there’s a distinct lack of the usual… vagueness. The pronouncements of a Seer are typically shrouded in metaphor, open to interpretation. Mr. Potter’s statements were… remarkably specific. Almost… factual.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore murmured, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the windowpane. “Seers perceive fragments, glimpses of possible futures, often distorted by the mists of time. They rarely exhibit such… precision, such strategic awareness. Young Harry’s actions tonight were… deliberate. Calculated. As if,” he paused, a thoughtful frown etching lines on his forehead, “as if he were operating from a complete understanding of the situation, a knowledge that transcends mere prophecy.”

“Perhaps… a prodigy?” Flitwick suggested, grasping at another explanation. “His magical abilities, his… control… at such a young age… it’s unprecedented. And the spellwork he employed on the Sorting Hat… it was… ingenious. The layering of enchantments, the intricate magical signatures… it was the work of a master spellcrafter, not a first-year student.”

“A prodigy, yes,” Dumbledore conceded slowly. “But even the most gifted prodigy does not typically possess such… comprehensive knowledge of dark magic, nor the ability to anticipate such a complex and dangerous attack. And that business with the Apparition… or whatever it was… within the Great Hall itself… it defies all known magical theory.”

Meanwhile, in the Ravenclaw first-year dormitory, I lay wide awake, staring at the canopy above my bed. My mind was a whirlwind of calculations and contingencies. I’d revealed more to Flitwick than I’d intended, but his sharp intellect and deep understanding of magical theory made him the most likely to accept a… less conventional explanation. I couldn’t exactly tell him I was from the future. Not yet, anyway. It would be like trying to explain quantum physics to a gnome.

The real challenge was managing the butterfly effect. By exposing Quirrell so early, I’d drastically altered the course of the year. The Stone’s protection would need to be rethought entirely. The troll incident, the catalyst for Ron and Hermione’s friendship, might not happen at all. And Malfoy… well, who knew what he’d do with the knowledge that Voldemort was, essentially, a squatter in someone else’s head?

In his own office, deep in the dungeons, Snape was experiencing similar, though significantly less whimsical, thoughts as he applied a cooling balm to his Dark Mark. The burning sensation was a constant, throbbing reminder of the Dark Lord's continued existence, and Potter's casual revelation had sent a shiver of unease down his spine. The boy’s knowledge was deeply concerning, but the way he’d presented it, with such unnerving calmness, suggested something far more sinister than mere chance or prophecy. It felt… orchestrated. As though Potter was manipulating events from the shadows.

Back in Dumbledore’s office, the discussion continued, the atmosphere heavy with concern and a growing sense of unease. “Should we attempt to question him further, Albus?” Flitwick asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “If he possesses such… unusual… knowledge…”

Dumbledore shook his head slowly, his expression grave. “Direct confrontation is rarely the most effective approach in such delicate matters, Filius. If Harry Potter is what I suspect – and I confess, my theories range from a simple, albeit extraordinary, magical talent to something… far more… esoteric – then he has chosen this particular course of action for a reason. We must observe, we must learn, and we must be prepared to act when the time is right.”

The portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses that adorned the walls of Dumbledore’s office remained stubbornly silent, though their painted eyes followed the Headmaster’s every move. Fawkes, perched on his golden stand, trilled a soft, mournful note that seemed to echo the growing unease in the room.

“Besides,” Dumbledore added, a faint twinkle returning to his eyes, a twinkle that didn’t quite reach the underlying seriousness in his gaze, “we have more pressing concerns. Several anxious parents will undoubtedly be arriving tomorrow, demanding explanations for tonight’s… unpleasantness. And,” he sighed, the twinkle fading, “we are still in need of a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. One who, ideally, does not harbor a Dark Lord as a parasitic houseguest.”

Flitwick nodded slowly, his mind still reeling from the implications of his conversation with Harry. He replayed the boy’s words in his mind, searching for clues, for some logical explanation. “Different iterations… time to study… prevent tragic events…” The phrases echoed in his mind, hinting at something far beyond the realm of ordinary magic. He had a sudden, unsettling image of Harry surrounded by complex diagrams, strange symbols, and devices that looked like they belonged in a Muggle science laboratory. He shook his head, dismissing the image as fanciful, but the feeling of profound unease remained.

Somewhere in the depths of the castle, a clock struck one, its chimes echoing through the ancient corridors, each chime a stark reminder of the relentless march of time, a time that, in the presence of Harry Potter, had become disturbingly… fluid. And several floors above, in the quiet solitude of the Ravenclaw dormitory, the subject of their intense discussion finally drifted off to sleep, blissfully unaware of the storm he had stirred.

In the quiet solitude of the Ravenclaw dormitory, the gentle snores of my housemates formed a peaceful backdrop to the chaotic symphony in my mind. Programming and magic. Binary code and arcane incantations. They were two sides of the same coin, I realized, different languages used to manipulate the underlying fabric of reality. Back in Seattle, I’d built virtual worlds with lines of code; here, in Hogwarts, I was building real ones with spells.

The Ravenclaw library was a veritable goldmine. Ancient tomes on arithmancy hinted at magical algorithms, while dusty scrolls on runic theory resembled complex data structures. The way magic responded to intent resonated with my understanding of quantum computing – a concept I’d… explored… during a rather unexpected detour to Avengers Tower.

The memory still made me chuckle. I’d been deep in an experimental phase with intent-based Apparition. My hypothesis was that magical transportation, at its core, involved manipulating quantum probabilities. I was trying to pinpoint the exact moment of transition, the point where intention became reality, when something went spectacularly wrong – or right, depending on your perspective.

One minute, I was in my magically expanded bedroom back in Privet Drive, focusing on a specific set of coordinates, visualizing the swirling vortex of magical energy. The next, I was standing in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, blinking in the bright light and the sheer… everything of it.

Tony Stark, mid-bite of a truly gargantuan sandwich (ham and Swiss on rye, if I remember correctly), nearly choked. His repulsors whirred to life, the familiar blue glow illuminating the room as he spun around, sandwich clutched defensively in his hand. The other Avengers – Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Thor, and even a slightly bewildered-looking Bruce Banner – stared at me with varying degrees of shock and amusement.

“That’s… Harry Potter,” Clint had managed, wiping a stray tear from his eye. “You know, from the books?”

“I know who Harry Potter is, Legolas,” Tony had retorted, his eyes narrowed. “What I want to know is how a fictional character just bypassed my multi-layered, state-of-the-art security systems and materialized in my living room. Did someone finally crack the quantum entanglement encryption?”

The irony was, as they say, rich. Here I was, Sarah from 2025, inhabiting the body of Harry Potter in 1991, facing down Tony Stark, all of us technically fictional characters, yet undeniably real in that moment. It was a meta-narrative paradox of epic proportions.

Explaining my situation to the Avengers had been… interesting. Bruce, as expected, was the first to grasp the implications, his scientific mind immediately latching onto the concept of alternate realities and the potential for interdimensional travel. Tony, however, was in his element. He’d spent hours peppering me with questions, his eyes gleaming with excitement as I explained the parallels between programming and magic.

“So, you’re saying you coded the Sorting Hat to change color?” he’d asked, gesturing wildly with a wrench. “Like, using magical instructions as if they were lines of code? That’s… that’s brilliant! It’s like a magical API! We need to document this!”

I’d tried my best to explain the concept of magical signatures acting as unique identifiers, the layered enchantments functioning as nested functions, and the inherent redundancies I’d built in to prevent easy counter-spells. Tony had scribbled furiously on holographic displays, muttering about “spell debugging” and “magical version control.” It was a surreal, exhilarating experience.

Eventually, though, it was time to leave. I had a life to get back to, a destiny to fulfill, or rather, a destiny to rewrite. I explained that I needed to return to my own time, to my own… reality.

“So, how are you getting back?” Tony had asked, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice. “Got another quantum tunneling trick up your sleeve?”

I’d smiled. “Something like that,” I’d said, focusing my intent, visualizing the familiar swirling vortex of magical energy. “It’s been… enlightening.”

With a final wave to the bewildered but fascinated Avengers, I vanished, leaving them to ponder the implications of my sudden appearance and equally sudden departure. I reappeared back in my Surrey bedroom, feeling a strange sense of displacement, as if I’d just stepped out of a vivid dream.

Tomorrow, classes would begin, and I’d have to maintain my cover. But in my free time… well, there were magical algorithms to be written, spells to be documented, and a whole magical world to be subtly… debugged.

The stars twinkled through the tower windows, a silent testament to the vastness of the universe and the infinite possibilities it held. As I finally drifted off to sleep, my mind still buzzing with magical function calls and quantum probability matrices, I knew one thing for certain: this year at Hogwarts was going to be anything but ordinary.

As dawn broke over Hogwarts, painting the stained-glass windows of Ravenclaw Tower in vibrant hues, the prefects, looking remarkably chipper for so early in the morning, gathered their sleepy charges for the traditional first-year tour. I stifled a yawn, my brain still buzzing with magical algorithms and quantum probability matrices from my late-night theorizing. The moving staircases, in particular, presented a fascinating puzzle. Their seemingly random movements hinted at a complex, predictive algorithm, and I was already mentally sketching out a program to map their trajectories. It would be a useful tool, or at the very least, a fun coding exercise.

“Your first class today is Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall,” Penelope, the stern-looking fifth-year prefect, announced as we descended the winding staircases. “It’s on the first floor – though remember, in Hogwarts, ‘first floor’ means one level up from the ground floor. Muggles often get confused by that.” She glanced at me, a flicker of something – curiosity? apprehension? – in her eyes. It seemed my… unique Sorting had made me something of a local celebrity.

I offered a small, polite smile. The castle’s layout was even more intricate than I’d imagined. Corridors twisted and turned in seemingly impossible ways, windows offered shifting perspectives depending on the time of day and, I suspected, the observer’s magical sensitivity, and the portraits… well, the portraits were a whole magical social network, gossiping and exchanging information with each other. It was a fascinating system, and I was eager to explore its intricacies.

We arrived at the Transfiguration classroom to find the Hufflepuffs already queuing outside, a neat, orderly line of yellow and black. They glanced at us as we approached, their eyes widening slightly when they spotted me. Whispers rippled through their ranks. “It’s him… the one with the hat…”

Professor McGonagall opened the classroom door precisely on time, her sharp gaze sweeping over the students as they filed in. Her eyes lingered on me a moment longer than the others, a hint of… calculation?… in her expression. I offered a respectful nod.

The classroom was a marvel of magical architecture. High, arched windows flooded the room with natural light, illuminating rows of sturdy wooden desks, each subtly carved with runic patterns that I suspected stabilized the transformative magic performed during lessons. At the front of the room, a large chalkboard shimmered faintly, likely enchanted to prevent accidental self-transfigurations or other unfortunate mishaps.

As I took my seat, I couldn’t help but analyze the room’s magical infrastructure, my mind switching effortlessly between programmer and engineer mode. The ambient magic flowed in organized patterns, like well-structured code. It was a beautiful, efficient system. McGonagall’s tabby cat form was already perched on her desk, its green eyes fixed on the incoming students, observing them with an almost unnerving intensity. Her Animagus transformation was an impressive feat of magical engineering, a complex example of self-Transfiguration that I deeply admired.

“Good morning, class,” McGonagall said as she seamlessly transformed back into her human form, eliciting a few gasps and impressed murmurs from the first-years who hadn’t been forewarned about her dramatic entrance. “Transfiguration is some of the most complex and, I might add, dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Any foolishness in my classroom will be dealt with severely. You have been warned.” Her gaze swept across the room, lingering on me again, a hint of steel in her voice.

I sat up straighter, pushing aside the lingering effects of my late-night magical theorizing. This was it. Real, tangible magic. Magic that directly manipulated matter and energy, the physical equivalent of rewriting base code. As McGonagall began her lecture, explaining the fundamental principles of transforming a match into a needle, my mind was already dissecting the process: input validation (checking the match’s material properties), transformation matrices (defining the change in molecular structure), and error handling (preventing partial or… explosive… transformations).

This was going to be fascinating.

======

As the first-years began practicing the match-to-needle transformation, I watched with a mixture of amusement and analytical curiosity as McGonagall circulated, offering corrections and encouragement. For me, with my intent-based magic (a skill that had led to that utterly surreal encounter with the Avengers), the traditional wand-based approach seemed charmingly methodical, almost… analog. But I understood its purpose. Just as knowing how compilers worked made you a better programmer, understanding the underlying principles of spellcasting was essential.

The match-to-needle transformation, as McGonagall explained, required precise visualization, careful wand movements, and the correct incantation. It was like a magical function call, with the wand and incantation acting as the public API. My intent magic, by contrast, was like having direct access to the kernel – powerful, but potentially dangerous without a thorough understanding of the system.

That conversation with Tony Stark replayed in my mind. He’d instantly grasped the implications of intent-based magic interfacing with quantum mechanics. “You’re basically writing conditional statements for reality itself,” he’d said, his eyes gleaming with scientific curiosity. “The universe executes whatever possibility matches your intent parameters.”

Now, watching my classmates struggle with their matches – some turning slightly metallic, others sparking alarmingly – I considered the possibility of combining traditional spellcasting with my quantum intent approach. Could I create a hybrid system, combining the reliability of traditional magic with the raw power of probability manipulation?

“Very good, Miss Granger,” McGonagall’s voice broke through my thoughts. Hermione had managed to turn her match a dull, silvery grey, the tip slightly pointed, though it was still far from a proper needle. I glanced down at my own untouched match, realizing I should probably make a show of effort. The whispers had already started. “He’s not even trying…”, “Did you see what he did to the Hat?”, “Maybe he already knows how to do it…”

With deliberate movements, I performed the standard wand motions, reciting the incantation clearly and precisely. Internally, however, I was analyzing the flow of magical energy, mapping it against my understanding of quantum probability fields. The match transformed perfectly, of course. That was the easy part. The important part was the data I was gathering, the insights I was gaining into the interaction between these two distinct magical systems.

McGonagall paused by my desk, her brow furrowed slightly as she examined the perfectly transformed needle. “A perfect transformation, Mr. Potter,” she said, her tone laced with a hint of suspicion. “Though perhaps, next time, we might observe the intermediate stages of your work? It is essential to learn the proper techniques, not simply… achieve the desired result.”

I nodded apologetically, offering a sheepish smile. “Of course, Professor. My apologies.” But my mind was already racing ahead, filled with equations, diagrams, theoretical frameworks, and potential experiments. If I could properly document how traditional spellcraft interfaced with quantum probability… Tony Stark would spontaneously combust with excitement. Though explaining to the Avengers why Harry Potter kept randomly popping into their kitchen for tea and biscuits might get a little tiresome.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class. As I packed up my things, I overheard a few first-years whispering behind me. “He’s weird, isn’t he?” one said. “But… brilliant,” another added, her voice full of awe.

I smiled inwardly. Weird and brilliant. That was probably the most accurate description of me anyone had come up with so far. 

=≈=≈======

“You know,” Bruce said, rubbing his temples after my parting jab faded into the ether, “we should probably be more concerned that she’s casually altering the timeline of her own universe. The butterfly effects alone could be staggering.”

“Says the man who helped save half the universe,” Tony shot back, perfectly mimicking Bruce’s earlier mild tone. He stood to refill his coffee cup, then paused, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Though speaking of butterflies… what happens to all those books millions of people have read if she succeeds in changing everything? Do they just… rewrite themselves? Like a magical update?”

“Bold of you to assume you’re not just characters in her universe’s fiction too,” Natasha pointed out, gathering the empty plates with practiced efficiency. “For all we know, we’re only having this conversation because some bored witch or wizard in her world wrote it into their fanfiction.”

Sam, who had finally recovered from his coffee-choking incident, raised an eyebrow. “So we’re fictional characters discussing how we might be fictional characters in another fictional character’s universe, who might also be fictional in our universe, which might be fictional in… I need more coffee.” He headed towards the coffee maker, a look of profound existential dread on his face.

“The real question,” Steve interjected pragmatically, ever the voice of reason, “is whether we should be helping her change established events at all. Though I suppose by that logic, we shouldn’t even be having breakfast with her in the first place.”

“Pretty sure that ship sailed when she… prevented Quirrell from getting anywhere near the Philosopher’s Stone, didn't it the first day she was at Hogwarts?” Clint reminded them, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not just about the big events anymore. Think about Harry. He’s supposed to have Ron and Hermione by his side. Now, with this… alteration, he’s essentially alone. A Ravenclaw, no less! It changes everything for him. He’s going to be so isolated.” Clint shook his head, a genuine worry in his voice. “A solo adventure for Harry Potter? That’s not right.”

“That’s what’s worrying,” Steve said, his brow furrowed. “If she’s changing things, we don’t know what the consequences will be. For her, or for him. For Harry. He's just a kid caught in the crossfire of her changes.”

“And she’s so… casual about it,” Natasha added, a hint of concern in her voice. “It’s like she doesn’t realize the ripple effects, especially on someone like Harry. He’s already been through so much.”

“She said she was lonely,” Tony murmured, his voice softer than usual. “She’s in a world where she doesn’t belong, in a body that isn’t hers. She’s trying to… make it feel more like home, I guess. But she’s inadvertently impacting a child’s life, and that’s not okay.”

“But at what cost?” Bruce asked, his voice laced with worry. “She’s playing with forces she doesn’t fully understand. We saw what happened when we messed with time. We can’t let her make the same mistakes, especially considering the potential harm to Harry.”

Tony rubbed his temples. “You know what? This is getting out of hand. We need to talk to her. We need to make her understand the potential consequences of her actions, particularly concerning Harry. He’s vulnerable.”

“And how do we do that?” Steve asked, his expression grim. “How do we explain to someone who’s living inside a story that she’s changing the ending, and potentially hurting a child in the process?”

“We tell her the truth,” Tony said firmly. “We tell her we’re worried about her, yes, but we’re also worried about what this is doing to Harry. To his life. This isn't a game. This is his life. Or… her other life. Whatever. It’s something real, and she needs to be careful. We need to make her understand the human cost of her actions.”

“But what if she doesn’t listen?” Bruce asked, his voice filled with concern.

Tony sighed, a heavy weight settling on his shoulders. “Then we do what we always do,” he said, looking at each of his teammates. “We try to help. Even if she doesn’t want it. Especially if it means protecting a kid who’s just trying to find his place in the world.”