Chapter Text
Harry Potter began to realize that something was up the day he started elementary school. Ahem, excuse him, primary school. The UK in the eighties was crazy. Ridiculous fashion, ridiculous accents, ridiculous everything. Music was good, though. Had to give them that.
Spelling "color" with a "u" would take some getting used to, to be sure, but Harry thought he was up for it. Most of the changes would be minor. Thank goodness his jaw muscles and tongue seemed to naturally produce an English accent. He had to concentrate to speak like an American, so most likely he wouldn't be found out that way. There were a few times he called the boot of a car the "trunk" and so on, but by the time he started school those kinds of slip-ups were rare.
Once he realized where he was and, most importantly, when he was, a plan formed almost without conscious thought. Get out. Get back to America. Get rich.
The man he once was had twenty-first-century software engineering knowledge. He could make Facebook before Facebook, Amazon before Amazon, or any number of apps or websites. By the time he was grown up, he would be perfectly placed to ride the wave in the 2000s and 2010s before AI started eating the industry. His large language model knowledge was superficial, but now that he knew what to look out for, it was possible to get ahead of the curve. It would be best to go to college, excuse him, uni, in America, and make a shiny product in his dorm that would impress some VCs. From there, he'd be set.
Or so he thought.
There were obstacles to that plan, two big ones and one skinny one.
You see, Harry Potter's home life was not what you might call ideal. They didn't beat him or starve him, but could these people be relied on to finance his American dream? Not likely. He was treated with disdain. Most of the time, they'd prefer to pretend he didn't exist.
Well, I don't much care for you people either, he thought.
Fat Uncle Vernon was your typical boomer stereotype, somehow able to afford a house, car, and stay-at-home wife on a single salary while producing nothing of value. Frankly, Harry wasn't even sure what Vernon Dursley did. It had something to do with drills, but Big Unc definitely didn't work in a factory or as a design engineer. Sales, maybe? He didn't seem smart enough to be an accountant. It was white-collar, whatever it was. China would put the company he worked for out of business in a decade or two, Harry was sure.
Aunt Petunia, a skinny, shrill woman, was related to him by blood, not that Harry saw any resemblance. She would be the worst Facebook mom group member of all time in another age. Her obsession was having a nicer flower garden than the neighbors. Thank goodness there wasn't social media dopamine chasing to make her worse. He couldn't imagine her worse.
His main problem right now, though, was the boy. Dudley Dursley didn't seem all that fat to him, since he was an American from the twenty-first century, but according to everyone else, his cousin was huge. Dudley hated being the fat boy and took it out on everyone else, especially Harry. Though Harry could usually outrun him, Dud was big and strong, and if Harry got caught, Harry was getting a busted lip. They spent far more time together than the other two. It couldn't be avoided since they went to the same school and walked the same streets.
That was another thing. Free-range children were the rule, not the exception. Nobody was going to call the cops if a six-year-old was out alone. Harry pretty much had the run of the neighborhood, and would explore to minimize the time he had to spend at home. If he was underfoot, most likely Aunt Petunia would find something for him to do.
One day he was loitering around after school, thinking about when he should make his move. The internet and Windows 95 were still a decade away. What ought he to do until then? Everything in school was review. Maybe study electronics and hardware? Chips were a big thing. If you asked Harry, he'd rather be the next Jensen Huang than the next Mark Zuckerberg. Yeah, that made sense. He already knew how to code. Learning more about semiconductors would be time well spent.
There was a spring in his step as he walked to the local library, ready to exploit his childhood neuroplasticity to the fullest, when he spotted it. It.
Their little town had a boxing gym right on the corner, not a mile from Harry's house. This was it; this was the in he needed to get Dudley off his back.
The next time Dudley and his friends were chasing Harry, the boy let himself be caught. "Hey, Dudley, I've got an idea. You like to fight, don't you?"
The big boy stepped back warily, his childish face scrunched up as if he were trying to determine whether this was a trick. "You want to fight? You'll lose!" He put up his hands and began to advance.
"Wait!" Harry cried. "I found a place that teaches boxing, just two streets over. You know, boxing." Harry mimed a bit of footwork and a combination. "If you like to fight, we could fight there every day, if you wanted. They'd teach us. I could be your sparring partner, carry your bag, whatever."
Dudley frowned. "Why would I want to box? I'm already the toughest lad on the block!"
Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Learn how to punch harder. You ever seen a grown boxer? They're big and strong." Not fat, went unsaid, but Harry hoped Dudley would get the implication. "All the blokes like a good boxing match, I heard."
"And you would be there?" the boy said in disdain. Seriously, what did Harry ever do to these people?
"Hey, you need somebody to carry your bag, hold those little pads for you, and so forth. I could learn a thing or two as well, give you a better fight, more sport, you know."
The boy still looked suspicious, but Harry could tell he'd planted a very appealing fantasy in his head. A few words to Uncle Vernon that night, and the two of them had money enough for a month's membership. Unc didn't give them any more since he probably thought Dudley would get bored and quit. It was Harry's mission to make sure that didn't happen.
They weighed themselves on day one, at Harry's suggestion, just so they would know what weight class they'd be in, but really so Dudley could see how much weight he lost. For the next few weeks, Harry played the trainer: encouraging, cajoling, and sometimes shaming Dudley into activity. With nutrition and exercise science knowledge he remembered from YouTube tutorials, he helpfully offered to cook for his cousin. When the boy balked, Harry swore it would taste good, better than English food, anyway.
***
"Come on! Is that all you got?"
Thud! Thud! Dudley's punches fell on the heavy bag like gunshots. Harry had to grunt to hold the thing in place. The whole gym smelled of sweat and leather. Dudley's shirt was drenched through, but those hands of his stayed heavy.
"I'm," his cousin panted, "gonna make you pay for this, Freak!" Thud! Thud!
Harry smiled secretly behind the bag. Making Dudley angry worked wonders to get him motivated when the boy was tired. It was how Harry managed to get Dudley to not quit on day one.
After only a week, they weighed themselves again. Dudley had lost eight pounds, more than one a day, while Harry gained a little, because he was eating what Dudley was eating: lean protein, clean carbs, all that.
"Bloody hell!" his cousin said in wonder. "Losing weight is that easy?"
"And fast," Harry added. Young boy metabolism was crazy.
Dudley's belly was totally flat within a month. Within another, he had a six-pack. Aunt Petunia was so thrilled she took her son out to buy a whole new wardrobe. Meanwhile, Uncle Vernon enjoyed his new identity as a "boxing dad," driving Dudley and Harry to tournaments all over England, and twice to Scotland. After school, they raced to the gym every day to get their workout in. Dudley's grades even improved, if you can believe it. Healthy body, healthy mind, Harry supposed.
Nobody called his cousin fat anymore, so Dudley didn't have so much anger to take out on Harry. Mostly, the sport kept him occupied.
Harry learned too. He was skinny and tall for his weight, with long arms and legs. Their coach said he had a great jab and the best footwork he'd ever seen from a child his age. Dudley said sparing Harry was the best practice possible, since if he could hit Harry, he could hit the slower lads in his weight class. He was right.
Within a few years, they were both outright winning tournaments, and their coach said Dud might have a shot at the Olympic team one day. That was great, a good constructive activity for his cousin. For Harry, it was more like a hobby. He wasn't learning anything in school, so it was best to just stay active. Their local library had a good collection of Schaum's Outlines in various subjects, including electrical engineering, so boxing was a nice break from the whole long-term grindset.
Something was strange, though. Sometimes, when Harry got trapped on the ropes, for example, it was almost like time slowed down. His opponent got easy to predict and easier to hit. Anytime Harry got in trouble, there was a sudden burst of speed, or maybe the other kid would slip and get slightly off balance. It was more than luck. It was uncanny. Reincarnation was real. Harry Potter knew this for a fact. What else was going on?
Whatever it was, Harry couldn't find a single clue. He couldn't start the "weird stuff" on purpose. Desperation, or at least stress, was required.
His aunt and uncle were nicer to him these days, at least. After five years of boxing, he and his cousin were different people. Dudley was a tank, as much as an eleven-year-old boy could be a tank. Harry was long and lean, one of the tallest boys in their school. After a few growth spurts for them both, Harry now had clothes that mostly fit. He was in charge of cooking for the household, teaching these Brits the wonders of seasoning their food. Life was good.
The year was 1991. Soon the Information Age would take the world by storm. It was time to get ready. That was, until Harry got the oddest letter he'd ever seen on his eleventh birthday.