(This book stays completely true to the original, not a single word altered - A.K. Rowling.)
Everyone on Privet Drive knew something odd about Number Four: the Dursleys had a strange boy living with them. Word was, he was Mrs. Dursley's nephew—her sister's son. His parents had died in some accident, and the kind-hearted Dursleys had taken him in.
But people kept their distance. What kind of kid has a weird tattoo on his forehead? Rumor had it his parents were killed in a gang shootout. Some even imagined one day a gang of black-clad thugs would kick down the Dursleys' door to drag the kid away.
That strange boy's name was Harry. And right now, he was waking up in a cold sweat.
He grabbed his blanket and wiped his face. The nightmares were less frequent as he got older, fuzzier too, but they still left him soaked in fear.
Harry pushed open his bedroom door and headed to the bathroom. He turned the tap—ice-cold water sprayed from the showerhead before gradually warming. Steam began to fill the room. He let the hot water wash away the sweat and loosen his nerves.
Soon the sound of water died down. A large hand wiped the steam from the mirror. Harry stared at himself and exhaled deeply.
"Eleven years," he muttered. "Time to wake up from this goddamn dream."
He slapped his cheeks and stared at his reflection. Right there on his forehead, a scar—sharp and detailed, like the outline of a handgun. If he wasn't mistaken, it was a Glock G18, chambered for 9mm Parabellum rounds. He'd fired one in his past life during a trip abroad—ran through three ten-round mags at a range. Scored a 299 out of 300 at fifty meters. The manager was so impressed, he waived the fee and gave him a gold-plated Zippo as a souvenir.
But that was another life.
Yeah. He was a transmigrator. Eleven years ago, he landed in this world and became a baby named Harry Potter.
But something felt off. This wasn't quite the Harry Potter universe J.K. Rowling had written.
Take that dream he just had: a woman screaming her husband's name—James—followed by a BOOM, and the man flew backward. The woman, who seemed to be his mother, shielded him with her body. Her words were muffled. Another BOOM. She collapsed.
A handsome, vicious man stood laughing maniacally and raised a Desert Eagle .50 caliber handgun at him. Its muzzle flashed with searing green flames.
What the hell?!
This isn't right!
If this were the real Harry Potter, shouldn't Voldemort be pointing a little stick and yelling "Avada Kedavra!"?
Sure, it was green light—but this green light wasn't that green light!
This wasn't J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter. This was A.K. Rowling's Hallelujah! God-girls in bikinis blessing you to dodge stray bullets , Hallelujah!
The whole messed-up setup made Harry's temples throb. Worse yet, he didn't even get a transmigrator's cheat—no system, no status screen, nothing. Just those crazy dreams. Everything else about him? Totally normal. Or at least, it looked that way.
Maybe he was just losing it. Sure, he was called Harry. Lived with his aunt and uncle at 4 Privet Drive. Had a cousin named Dudley. But Hogwarts? He was more inclined to believe in an English Superman.
He'd been to the zoo, but he didn't vanish glass or talk to snakes. He hadn't flown up a chimney. No aunt getting chewed out by teachers. No cupboard under the stairs either. His room was right next to Dudley's. They liked playing Alien Brawl on the PC, shared fries and chicken wings, and crammed on the couch watching TV. Dudley was built like a tank thick, muscular, and could take a punch. Harry? All muscle lean, chiseled, explosive. The two of them dominated the youth boxing league in the southeast. Even older teens didn't stand a chance.
The Dursleys treated him well. They never talked about his parents, sure but otherwise, they weren't strict. They even hoped the boys would both get into the Royal Military Academy.
Refreshed from his shower, Harry kicked open Dudley's door.
"Wake up, bro! I'm going for a 200-kilo squat today. You in?"
Dudley groaned, rubbed his eyes, and yawned. "Screw squats. Last time I almost blew my groin. Let's just do bench presses. Squats stunt your height."
Climbing out of bed, Dudley stood up and sized himself next to Harry. Same weight, but half a head shorter and a lot thicker. He looked like a meatier version of some kind of… horse.
"Well, go wash up. I'll make breakfast. Steak or pork chops? Or maybe roast venison?"
"Venison," Dudley mumbled, licking his lips like he could already smell it. "Let's go hunting next weekend for your birthday. Dad can take us to the countryside bag a couple more. That stuff gives you real strength."
"Cool. Get moving then. I'll toss it in the oven."
Harry headed downstairs. One more sign this wasn't that Harry Potter world? The tech here was all kinds of wrong.
They had guns though not the kind he remembered. The Dursleys owned a hunting rifle that took two hours to charge and fired five pulse laser shots. The one-time high-energy batteries were regulated. Civilians used low-power rechargeable cells.
There were plasma weapons. High-energy ray weapons. But no gunpowder firearms.
No Glock 18s. No Desert Eagle .50s. Nada. So Harry figured the dreams were just leftover trauma from his past life. He'd died in a gang crossfire on the streets of Brooklyn. Should've known better than to wander around that part of town.
The venison was leftovers—half-cooked and vacuum sealed. Toss it in the oven for fifteen minutes and boom—sizzling hot, dripping with juice. Five kilos, plenty for him and Dudley to fuel up and hit the gym. Working out was addictive. Skipping a day made him restless.
By 7 a.m., the milkman and the paperboy had already swung by. Harry wiped his mouth, opened the door, grabbed the milk, and checked the mailbox. A bundle of letters.
"Uncle Vernon, last month's bill came in. Oh, and our prize money from the boxing match—two grand total."
"Really?" Vernon, coffee in one hand and buttered toast in the other, looked up. He gave Dudley a hard slap on the back, nearly sending him face-first into his plate.
"You two are real champs!" He reached into his pocket and counted out some bills. "Three hundred each. Buy yourselves something nice. We'll save the rest for your college fund."
The Royal Military Academy wasn't cheap. Even with Vernon's successful drilling business, footing the bill for both boys was tough. That's why they entered prize matches—to help out.
"Sweet! Time for new gloves."
Dudley grinned, pocketed the cash, and cleared his plate in seconds.
"What's up, Harry? What're you staring at?"
Harry was holding a letter. His eyes were wide. Dudley leaned in to take a look.
Hogwarts School of Magical Warfare
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(President of the International Confederation of Wizards, Grand Sorcerer of the Order of Merlin, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Magical Warfare. Enclosed is a list of required books and equipment.
The term begins on September 1st. We await your response by July 31st. On the morning of your receipt, at 8:00 AM, our trusted emissary, Mr. Rubeus Hagrid, will visit your home to explain everything. Your questions will be answered. We look forward to meeting you.
Deputy Headmistress,
Minerva McGonagall
Something exploded in Harry's brain.
His ears were ringing. The letter slipped from his hands and scattered across the floor. He stood there, completely stunned.
"Harry! Harry! Snap out of it!"
Worried, Dudley waved his hand in front of him. Then, hesitating, he spat in his palm and raised his right hand…
—End of chapter—
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