I
Harry Potter had virtually no understanding of what was currently occurring in his life.
He was standing in the middle of a bustling sidewalk, buildings sheltering everything but the two ends of the roads from sight. Elbows constantly nudged him in every direction. One jack even dared to outright shove him, but Harry was so confused he didn't do anything in retaliation.
“What the-” he proceeded to use one of his Uncle Vernon’s favorite words that always got him in trouble at school. The eight-year-old unknowingly started cursing under his breath in utter confusion.
The crowd’s flow roughly pushed his body forwards, the shoves not doing anything to help his delightful new bruises that his cousin, Dudley Dursley, lovingly gave him only minutes prior. The eight-year-old was undoubtfully not anywhere near where his cousin was now.
Many strange people suddenly streamed past him in the brightest colors imaginable. “Hello!” one shouted at him cheerfully, her accent quite strange, quickly running off to rejoin her group. Harry blinked at the woman in confusion.
Seeing a slim crack in the hustle and bustle, Harry lunged quickly into a dark alleyway between a strange modeling place and a nail salon.
He collapsed against the nearest wall, breathing heavily. The movement jarred his yellowing bruises from Dudley.
As quick as an eight-year-old could, Harry gathered up his thoughts and started to condense them down into a neater mess than before. If he could use this tactic before in maths, he could use it now.
Some would question why he did this, because all of it would be thrown out of the window for Harry not to get thrown out of the said window.
He would answer that he didn't know, but in reality, Harry knew he was just a cupboard flea living off a good dose of spite and stale bread from Aunt Petunia.
Back to his point- Harry had a ritual for his problem solving. He would figure out his problem, and the events leading up to it, and gather information on how to solve his dilemma.
That leads to his main question: how in tarnation did he teleport (?) from Surry to wherever he was now?
After consideration, Harry decided he had no bloody idea.
Of course, though, Harry knew all about the events before. Dudley and his fatty apprentices had been chasing him, and while Harry was contemplating how Dudley could run faster than .01 kilometer per hour, they had tackled him to the ground in an alleyway similar to the one he was currently resting in.
It was the last part now- trying to solve it. He remembered occurrences that were quite abnormal, but this was over the line. Nevertheless, he tried to remember everything he had done that Aunt Petunia considered ‘freaky’.
Harry remembered the funny ones first- turning his teacher’s hair blue, waking up with a full head of hair after Aunt Petunia had shaved it all off the night before, and turning Dudley’s fork into a mouse mid-bite.
Then he remembered the crueler ones, like making Uncle Vernon’s mustache turn hot pink, creating painful boils right on Dudley’s bum, and transforming Aunt Petunia’s frilly dress into her short nightgown in front of all her girlfriends.
Okay. From gathering all this, he has a hypothesis.
Magic!
Well, it was pretty dumb, but what other explanation was there? A hidden bucket filled with blue hair dye mysteriously dumps itself on his teacher’s head? And maybe Harry had a wig on and never even noticed?
His first theory was becoming more and more believable with every stupid thing he thought up afterwards. While it might not be magic, he didn't think normally think that Aunt Petunia secretly held the world record for the fastest-changing of clothes and used it to change into nightgowns in front of her friends.
Harry needed to prove this in some way. He held out his hand, feeling more than a little stupid, and tried to conjure up a flame.
Surprise, nothing happened.
But he had read about hypotheses and theories. You were supposed to experiment three times before concluding, right?
The eight-year-old determinedly held out his hand again, closing his eyes and searching for a spark of anything distinctly magical. In his mind, he traveled like vapor through his consciousness, unlocking doors and zooming straight through black brick walls.
Harry finally stopped zooming around when he felt a tingling sensation in his mind. It whispered to him sweet fantasies of power, but it seemed hindered in some sort of way. He traveled swiftly through a mental wall and gasped at the sight.
There, a massive ball of magic floated, mostly tied up and bound by thick black chains. Some of the mass oozed out of the restraints like goo. It was a shining, beautiful shade of emerald green. Harry could hear it begging to be used.
He reached out and touched some of the freed mass floating around the chains, and heat suddenly flared up in his hands.
Gasping, Harry snapped his eyes open. In his palm was a fire unlike any other.
The fire floated and danced contently. It was a color that matched his magic exactly, not a single shade off. Strangely, the heat that should be burning him was only comforting in its warmness.
Harry let out a giggle. This mutilated fire was brilliant! And it seemed to respond to his emotions too, as it flared up and danced happily to his delight.
A sharp intake of breath to his right instantly cut off both his giggles and the fire. Harry’s head snapped to the source of the noise.
There stood a hobo looking man, probably in his twenties, dirty and staring at him in shock.
“You- You-” he stuttered quietly. “You’re a wizard?”
Harry frowned at him. “I'm not a wizard, I'm just Harry. Harry Potter.”
The man looked quite close to hyperventilating. “Harry Potter?” he asked in disbelief. “Show me your scar.”
Confused, the eight-year-old frowned and questioned, “What scar? What makes you think I have scars, and why you do think you know me?”
“What- what do you mean? You're Harry Potter, right? The boy-who-lived? You have a lightning bolt scar, yes?”
Harry was instantly suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘boy-who-lived’? And how do you know about my scar?”
The man pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, we'll start simple,” he said. “I'm Jayden Woodgate. Apparently, you’re Harry Potter. Where I'm from, you’re a celebrity who defeated the Dark Lord. People know about you from Dumbledore and a book series about you. I'm also a wizard.”
“Wizards aren't real. Also, I may be young, but I still know that writing a book about someone without consent is most definitely illegal, so I don't believe you. Get away from me.”
A drop of rain hit Jayden’s cheek. He didn't even acknowledge it fully, wiping it away without a thought. Harry was unnerved by the intense way the brunette was staring at him.
“Of course wizards are real,” Jayden said slowly, as if explaining to a toddler why they couldn't shove their hand on the stove. The eight-year-old bristled at the fact that his comment about the legality of selling books about 'him'. “I thought you knew that. The whole world thought you knew that. Why don't you-”
More rain came down. It was impossible to ignore at this point.
The man in front of Harry cursed wildly, tossing his wet flop of brown hair to the side.
“Come with me,” the brunette demanded. “I'll explain more when we get to my house. Maybe you'd like to stay.”
Warily, the eight-year-old followed, the memories of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon urging Dudley not to talk to strangers firmly repeating in his head. He shielded his eyes with one hand, his head with the other, and bent forward like an old granny in order to protect himself from the rain.
They reached a seemingly abandoned building. It looked close to toppling over. Harry almost believed for a second that the man in front of him could perform magic just to keep his house standing.
Jayden confidently stepped inside, holding the chipped wooden door open so Harry could do the same. He was surprised to enter and see exactly the opposite of what he was expecting- beige walls, clean wooden floors, a sitting room with the largest fireplace Harry had ever seen to the left, a kitchen and table to the right, and even chandeliers for lighting.
“Woah,” Harry reacted. “How’d it- you know-” he gestured to the house vaguely.
Jayden laughed and said simply, “Magic.”
“I still don't necessarily believe that magic is real.” Despite what he said, the eight-year-old knew that fire just appearing, all the weird occurrences involving him, and this house coming out of a hut was not necessarily ‘normal.’
The older man hummed. “Go sit on the sofa. I'll get ourselves situated and then start explaining.”
Harry hesitated. “Fine,” he agreed after a pause. “You may have to clean your sofa afterward, though. I'm as nasty as a wet rat right now.”
Jayden smiled. “No problem.” He pointed a perfectly cut stick at Harry, murmured some jibberish, and the eight-year-old’s clothes magically dried and cleaned themselves throughoutly.
At least, that's what it looked like. Harry was still skeptical of the whole ‘magic’ business.