Harry Smith was having what he considered a perfectly ordinary Tuesday morning when the universe decided to pull a prank. Not a small one, either—this was the kind of cosmic practical joke that made banana peels and whoopee cushions look like amateur hour.
He'd just clocked out of his coffee shop shift, apron still faintly smelling of espresso and steamed milk, and was heading down Fifth Street toward the bus stop. The autumn air was crisp, leaves crunching under his sneakers. He was in the middle of that eternal internal debate—groceries and actual adult responsibility, or Pad Thai and Netflix again?—when he heard it.
The sound of creaking rope.
Harry looked up. Suspended from a third-floor window was a baby grand piano, dangling like some absurd sword of Damocles, the cables holding it together fraying with every sway. Movers on the ledge were shouting at each other, and if panic was a language, they were fluent.
*That's… weird,* Harry thought, brow furrowing. *Who moves a piano at ten a.m. on a Tuesday?*
The rope snapped.
Time went syrup-thick. Harry's brain, ever the overachiever in moments of crisis, delivered a flood of facts: one, the piano was a Steinway; two, it was falling at 9.8 meters per second squared; and three, he really should've worn running shoes instead of knockoff Converses.
He tried to leap backward. His feet disagreed. The piano filled his vision, blotting out sky, sun, and everything else. His last coherent thought was, *This is the dumbest way anyone has ever died.*
*CRASH.*
Darkness.
---
Harry blinked. He was sitting in… a waiting room? At least, it *wanted* to be a waiting room. The problem was that whoever designed it clearly had only heard rumors about what waiting rooms were supposed to look like.
The "walls" shifted through colors Harry didn't have names for—somewhere between purple and the concept of Thursday. The chair was the strangest paradox he'd ever experienced: perfectly molded to his body like it had been custom-made by angels, yet simultaneously carrying the accumulated soul-crushing essence of every dentist's chair he'd ever suffered through.
And across from him sat a man who looked exactly like Morgan Freeman, if Morgan Freeman had decided to vacation in Hawaii indefinitely and had somehow acquired eyes that contained actual swirling galaxies.
"Well," the man said, peering at a clipboard made of crystallized starlight, "this is properly awkward, innit?"
Harry blinked slowly. "I'm… sorry, what?"
"You're dead, mate." The man looked up with the casual demeanor of someone delivering a weather report. "Harry Smith, age nineteen, deceased at 10:13 a.m., Tuesday, October 15th, 2024. Cause of death: catastrophic piano-to-the-cranium incident." He squinted at the clipboard. "Honestly, it reads like something out of a cartoon. Did you hear a little whistle sound as it fell? Please tell me you heard the whistle."
Harry rubbed his forehead, which he was relieved to discover was still attached. "A piano? Seriously? That actually happened?"
"Oh, absolutely. Steinway Model D, 990 pounds of polished mahogany and musical dreams." The man gestured enthusiastically. "Proper classy way to go, if you ask me. Much better than choking on a pretzel or getting trampled by a flock of angry geese."
"People get trampled by geese?"
"You'd be surprised. Gerald Henderson almost did, back in '97." The man glanced back at his clipboard and his expression shifted to something like embarrassment. "Speaking of Gerald Henderson… bit of a problem there."
Harry's head snapped up. "What kind of problem?"
"Well, see, here's the thing." The man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "That piano? It wasn't meant for you. It was supposed to flatten Gerald Henderson like a pancake. Lovely bloke, by all accounts, but apparently his cosmic number was up."
"Gerald Henderson?"
"Yeah, forty-three, briefcase, works in accounting, has this nervous habit of retying his shoes even when they're not untied." The man shrugged apologetically. "He was supposed to be standing in your exact spot when gravity and the piano had their little rendezvous. Instead, he stopped to fiddle with his laces—perfectly tied laces, mind you—and you got the full Steinway experience."
Harry stared at him. "So I died… by mistake?"
"Bingo! Gold star for you." The man pointed at him with the cosmic clipboard. "Classic cosmic clerical error. Happens more than you'd think, actually. It's like when Amazon delivers your neighbor's package to your house, except instead of getting someone else's blender, you got someone else's death."
"That's…" Harry paused, processing. "That's absolutely insane."
"Welcome to the universe, population: everyone's confused." The man spread his arms wide, galaxies literally twinkling in his eyes. "Name's R.O.B., by the way. Random Omnipotent Being. Think of me as cosmic customer service, but with less 'please hold' and more 'oops, we completely bollixed your entire existence.'"
Harry squinted at him. "You look exactly like Morgan Freeman."
R.O.B. rolled his galactic eyes dramatically. "Oh, bloody hell, everyone says that. I was going for 'approachable authority figure with a touch of gravitas.' Next reincarnation, I'm showing up as Danny DeVito, see how you like getting your afterlife orientation from the Penguin."
Despite everything—the death, the cosmic mix-up, the fact that he was apparently talking to a Hawaiian-shirt-wearing deity—Harry actually laughed. "Okay, I'll admit, that's pretty funny."
"See? I knew I liked you." R.O.B. leaned forward conspiratorially. "Most people who die by piano are too traumatized to appreciate good comedy. You're handling this remarkably well."
"Thanks, I think?" Harry ran a hand through his hair. "So what happens now? Do I get to go back? File a complaint with cosmic management?"
R.O.B. made a face like he'd just tasted something unpleasant. "Oh no, no, no. Death's permanent, mate. Even for us omnipotent types, reversing death is a proper nightmare. Paperwork alone would make your tax return look like a haiku. Plus there's the time cops, the universal balance auditors, the paradox prevention squad…" He shuddered theatrically. "Absolute chaos. I don't do refunds, only exchanges."
"Exchanges?"
"Right, so here's where it gets interesting." R.O.B.'s entire demeanor brightened, like a salesman who'd just spotted a customer walking onto the lot. "Since we royally cocked up your first life, we offer what I like to call 'reincarnation packages.' Very popular with your generation, actually. You pick a universe, we throw in a little enhancement to make things more interesting, and bob's your uncle—fresh start with a bit of spice."
Harry raised an eyebrow, channeling his best skeptical expression. "What kind of enhancement are we talking about here?"
"Oh, the possibilities!" R.O.B. flicked his wrist, and glowing menu options appeared in the air between them like some kind of interdimensional video game. "We've got your classic RPG systems—stats, levels, skill trees, the works. Very popular with the power fantasy crowd. There's the omniscient narrator package, basically turns you into your own documentary. We've got inventory systems, crafting abilities, even a Minecraft-style creative mode if you're feeling ambitious."
Harry studied the floating options, his mind racing. Most of them seemed either overpowered to the point of making life boring, or so complicated they'd turn existence into a full-time job. "What about something simpler?"
"Simpler how?"
"I don't know…" Harry tapped his chin thoughtfully. "What about a daily check-in system?"
R.O.B. blinked. Then he started laughing—not polite chuckling, but proper belly laughs that made his Hawaiian shirt shake. "Oh, that's brilliant! Absolutely bloody brilliant!"
"It is?"
"Most people want to start with godhood or reality manipulation or some nonsense." R.O.B. wiped his eyes. "But you? You want what's essentially a cosmic loyalty program. 'Check in daily, get rewards, maintain your streak for bonuses.' It's not flashy, it's not broken, but if you're clever about it? Could be sneaky powerful."
Harry felt a grin tugging at his lips. "So basically, as long as I remember to log in like it's a mobile app, I get random loot?"
"More or less. Some days you'll get absolute rubbish—think healing potions or chocolate frogs. Other days?" R.O.B. wiggled his eyebrows. "Other days you might get something that makes you a walking natural disaster. But consistency pays off. Keep your streak going long enough, and the rewards get properly mental."
"I like it." Harry nodded decisively. "Simple but with potential. What's the catch?"
"Miss a day, lose your streak. Start over from the bottom." R.O.B. shrugged. "Also, the universe you're going to will have no idea you've got the system. As far as everyone else is concerned, you're just unusually lucky."
"Fair enough." Harry leaned back in his impossible chair. "So where can I go? Any universe I want?"
"Within reason. Can't send you somewhere that would break copyright law or cause interdimensional incidents." R.O.B. pulled out what appeared to be a cosmic catalog. "Marvel's popular, but you'll probably die horribly. DC's similar but with more angst. Star Trek's nice if you like speeches about the human condition. Pokémon's surprisingly deadly if you think about it logically…"
"Harry Potter," Harry said without hesitation.
R.O.B. looked up from his catalog. "Really? Just like that?"
"Come on," Harry said, spreading his hands. "Magic school, flying broomsticks, spells that can solve most problems? Plus the main character is already named Harry. Seems like fate."
"Fate had nothing to do with it, trust me. I've seen the paperwork." R.O.B. made a note on his starlight clipboard. "But fair point about the name. Make the transition easier. When do you want to start? Birth? First Hogwarts letter? Beginning of term?"
Harry thought for a moment. "Can you drop me in right at the beginning of the story? Like, midnight on Harry Potter's eleventh birthday, right before Hagrid shows up?"
"Bit dramatic, aren't you?" R.O.B. grinned. "I respect that. Proper sense of timing."
"Thanks. One question though—do I keep my memories?"
"Oh yes, all of them. Plus you'll get Harry Potter's original memories too." R.O.B.'s expression became almost sympathetic. "Two complete sets of childhood experiences, existential crisis practically guaranteed. Most people find it a bit overwhelming at first."
"Two sets of memories," Harry repeated slowly. "So I'll know everything that happened to Harry Potter, but I'll also remember being Harry Smith?"
"Exactly. Think of it as the deluxe package. You'll know what's coming in the story, but you'll also remember what pizza tastes like and how to work a smartphone." R.O.B. paused. "Fair warning though—wizard toilets are going to feel like a massive step backward."
Harry laughed despite himself. "I'll manage."
"Course you will. You seem like a sensible lad." R.O.B. stood up, and the cosmic waiting room began to shimmer around the edges. "Right then, Harry Potter universe it is. Daily check-in system activated, memories preserved, dramatic timing requested. Anything else I can do for you before we get this show on the road?"
"Just one thing," Harry said as reality started to blur around him. "When you say the rewards can get 'properly mental'…"
R.O.B.'s grin was the last thing Harry saw before the universe dissolved into swirling colors. "Oh, you'll see. Just remember to check in every day, yeah? And try not to die again. The paperwork would be a nightmare."
And then Harry Smith was falling through space and time, reality reorganizing itself around him as he plummeted toward his new life as the Boy Who Lived, with nothing but a cosmic loyalty program and a sense of humor to see him through.
*This is either going to be amazing,* he thought as the multiverse whirled around him, *or I'm going to die horribly. Again.*
Probably both.
---
# The Awakening
Harry woke to the sound of rain battering against the thin wooden walls like an impatient debt collector, waves crashing outside with the enthusiasm of a toddler with pots and pans, and the tang of salt in the air thick enough to cure meat. For one dizzying second, he thought he was back in that cosmic waiting room with R.O.B.—all white walls and impossible geometry—and then the memories hit like a freight train carrying emotional baggage.
Not just his memories.
Harry Potter's memories.
The cupboard under the stairs, barely large enough for a shoe closet but somehow expected to house a growing boy. Dudley's fists and laughter, always in that order. Vernon's bellowing that could wake the dead and probably had complaints filed by neighboring graveyards. Petunia's icy sneers that could freeze hell over twice. Hunger that gnawed at his stomach like a persistent houseguest. Loneliness so profound it had its own gravitational pull. The constant sense of wrongness whenever something strange happened—glass vanishing at the zoo like a magic trick gone right, a haircut growing back overnight as if his scalp had commitment issues—and being told, over and over, that he was a freak.
But behind all that misery, steady and warm like a space heater in winter, were his own memories. Harry Smith. Coffee shop shifts where the biggest drama was whether someone wanted oat milk or almond milk. Netflix binges that lasted until his eyes burned. And most importantly, knowing—really, truly knowing—that this world was supposed to be a story. That he had a chance to rewrite the script, maybe add some better dialogue and definitely improve the pacing.
Harry sat up on the lumpy couch that felt like it was stuffed with regret and broken dreams. Vernon's snores thundered through the thin wall with the subtlety of a jet engine having an identity crisis. Dudley, pig-tail and all, was sprawled like a sedated walrus on the floor, occasionally twitching as if his dreams involved running—which would be a first. Petunia had disappeared into some corner, probably pretending none of this was happening and that if she ignored it hard enough, it would go away. She'd perfected that technique with Harry years ago.
The clock on the wall read 11:59 PM.
Harry's heart hammered like it was trying to escape his chest and file a complaint with management.
11:59:58.
11:59:59.
Midnight.
[DAILY CHECK-IN SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
A soft-blue screen shimmered into existence in front of his eyes, bright against the shadows and significantly more appealing than anything else in this glorified shack. Vernon's snores didn't hitch; Dudley didn't stir. Only Harry could see it, which was either a blessing or the first sign of a psychotic break.
[Welcome, Harry James Potter!]
[Daily Check-in System online. Check in once daily to receive randomized rewards. Streak bonuses apply.]
[Current Streak: 0 Days]
[Next Tier: 7 Days (Rare Reward Guaranteed)]
[Check-in Available Now.]
Harry smirked, the expression feeling foreign on a face that had learned to expect disappointment as a default setting. "Happy birthday to me."
He thought YES with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just discovered free Wi-Fi.
[Daily Check-in Complete!]
[Streak: 1 Day]
[Reward: Enhanced Memory Potion x1]
A small vial of silvery liquid blinked into existence in his hand, cool and faintly glowing like liquid moonlight. He slipped it under the thin pillow just as—
BOOM.
The hut door flew inward like it had been personally offended by the concept of staying closed, slamming against the wall in a burst of salt spray that would have made any self-respecting ocean proud. Lightning flashed, framing the enormous silhouette in the doorway like nature's own dramatic lighting department had finally gotten its act together.
Harry stared up, blinking water from his eyes. Holy hell. They really did cast him perfectly.
The giant ducked through the doorway, hunched under the low ceiling like the world's largest person trying to fit into coach seating, wild hair and beard dripping seawater as if he'd just gone swimming in his clothes. His black eyes twinkled beneath shaggy eyebrows that could house small wildlife, his smile warm despite his sheer size and the fact that he'd just committed breaking and entering.
"Sorry 'bout that," the man said cheerfully, his voice carrying the kind of accent that suggested he'd learned English from trees and possibly a few friendly badgers. He picked up the splintered door as if it weighed nothing more than a particularly sturdy piece of cardboard. He tried—unsuccessfully—to wedge it back into place, which was rather like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube. "Should've knocked, I s'pose, but it were blowin' a gale out there. Thought the whole place might blow away 'fore I got here."
"Knocking would've been nice," Harry said lightly, standing up from the couch and stretching muscles that protested being folded on substandard furniture. "Although, you know, exploding entrances have their charm. Really sets the mood. Very dramatic. I give it an eight out of ten—points deducted for property damage and the fact that we're now essentially camping."
The giant chuckled, his beard bristling like an amused porcupine. "Exploding entrances, eh? S'pose that's one way t' put it. Never thought of it like that 'fore. Usually people jus' complain 'bout their hinges."
"Well, I'm not usually people," Harry said with a slight grin. "Though I suspect you already knew that."
The man's eyes crinkled with what looked suspiciously like pride. "Aye, that yeh aren't, lad. That yeh most certainly aren't."
Vernon burst from the back room like an angry hippo emerging from muddy water, face puce with rage and sporting what appeared to be the worst case of bedhead in recorded history. He was clutching an old rifle that looked like it had seen better decades and was probably held together with hope and spite.
"I WARNED YOU!" Vernon bellowed, his voice carrying the kind of authority that suggested he'd practiced this speech in the mirror. "I told you people we wouldn't have this freak nonsense in our house! This is a respectable family!"
Harry snorted. "Respectable is a strong word, Uncle Vernon. I'd go with 'generally law-abiding' or maybe 'adequately housed.'"
The giant turned slowly, like a mountain deciding to pay attention to an ant that had been particularly rude. The movement was deliberate, measured, and somehow infinitely more threatening than if he'd spun around quickly.
And the effect was instant. Vernon's rant dried up mid-yell like a stream hitting a dam, his mouth hanging open as if his brain had suddenly remembered it was connected to his survival instincts. The barrel of his rifle wobbled like a compass near a magnet. The giant looked at him with something between disappointment and disgust, like a teacher catching their least favorite student cheating on a test they'd already failed twice.
"Put tha' popgun away 'fore yeh hurt yerself," the giant rumbled, his voice carrying the kind of casual authority that suggested he'd dealt with armed idiots before and found them about as threatening as particularly aggressive housecats. "An' 'fore I decide yeh need a lesson in manners."
Harry bit his cheek to hide his grin, watching as Uncle Vernon deflated faster than a punctured balloon. He'd never seen his uncle lose a battle of intimidation so thoroughly. It was like watching a chihuahua try to stare down a grizzly bear.
"That's... probably wise advice," Harry said conversationally. "I mean, I'm no expert on firearms, but waving antique weapons at giants seems like the kind of decision that gets you featured in cautionary tales."
Vernon's face cycled through several colors that weren't typically found in nature, finally settling on a sickly greenish-white that suggested his body was seriously considering a strategic retreat.
Then the giant's gaze swung back to Harry, and his entire expression shifted like clouds parting to reveal sunshine. His huge face split into a grin so warm it could've melted the North Pole and probably would have made polar bears apply for relocation.
"You must be Harry," he said, his voice thick with emotion that sounded genuine enough to make Harry's chest tighten unexpectedly. "Blimey. Last time I saw yeh, yeh was jus' a little thing. Barely more'n a bundle in yer mum's arms, yeh were. Tiny little hands an' the biggest green eyes I'd ever seen. Now look at yeh."
Harry stepped forward, meeting the giant's eyes without flinching. Up close, the man was even more impressive—not just his size, but the way he carried himself, like someone who'd seen too much but hadn't let it break him. "And you're Hagrid. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
The half-giant blinked, his expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something that might have been delight. "Well, I—how'd yeh—? Dumbledore must've told yeh summat—though I s'pose he wouldn't've—but then how could yeh possibly—?" He stopped mid-ramble, then laughed, a booming sound that shook the rafters and probably registered on seismic equipment in three counties. "Doesn' matter how yeh know, does it? Still gave me a right start, though. Most people don't know me name 'fore I introduce meself."
"I'm not most people," Harry said with a slight smile. "Besides, you've got that look about you. The kind of person who'd introduce themselves properly instead of just breaking down doors and expecting people to guess."
"Ha! Got tha' right, I s'pose." Hagrid's grin widened, if that was physically possible. "Still, got yer dad's face, yeh do. Same stubborn jawline, same way of standin' like yeh own the place even when everythin's gone mad. But those eyes—aye, those're Lily's through an' through. Seen that exact look 'fore, when she was fixin' to tell someone exactly what she thought of 'em."
Harry felt something warm and complicated twist in his chest. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Should do," Hagrid said firmly. "Finest witch of her generation, yer mum was. An' yer dad—well, he had his faults, mind, but he was a good man. Both of 'em were."
Hagrid bent down, his massive hands fumbling in his coat with the delicacy of someone trying to perform surgery with oven mitts. "Brought yeh summat. Bit squashed, mind, but—here yeh are." He handed Harry a slightly dented box that looked like it had gone several rounds with a particularly aggressive opponent.
Harry opened it carefully and stared. Inside was what had clearly started life as a birthday cake but had since been through what could charitably be called an adventure. The pink icing was more of a suggestion than a reality, and the words "Happy Birthday Harry" looked like they'd been written by someone having a mild seizure. It was, without question, the most beautiful thing Harry had ever received.
"Birthday cake?" Harry asked, his voice softer than he'd intended.
"Homemade," Hagrid said proudly, puffing out his chest like he'd just presented the crown jewels. "Made it meself, I did. Pink icing got a bit messed up in me pocket, an' I think I might've sat on it once or twice on the boat ride over, but it tastes right enough. Been carryin' it since this mornin'." He paused, looking suddenly uncertain. "Yeh... yeh do like cake, don' yeh?"
For a second, Harry almost forgot about the System, the books, the reincarnation, everything. He was just an eleven-year-old kid who'd never had a birthday cake, never had someone care enough to make one, never had anyone remember his birthday without being legally obligated to. His throat tightened traitorously.
"Thank you," he said softly, genuinely, looking up at Hagrid with something that might have been the beginning of trust. Then, after a beat, he managed a grin: "Though, I think we should workshop your cake transport methods. 'Coat pocket' doesn't exactly scream food safety. Next time, maybe invest in some Tupperware. Revolutionary stuff."
Hagrid barked another laugh, clapping Harry on the shoulder so hard his knees buckled and he briefly questioned whether his spine was still properly aligned. "Merlin's beard, yeh've got a sense o' humour too! Sharp as a tack, jus' like yer mum. She used ter give me grief 'bout me cookin' methods too. Always said I treated food like it was indestructible."
"Food usually isn't," Harry said, steadying himself. "But I appreciate the effort. And the sentiment. Both are... new for me."
Hagrid's expression softened, and Harry caught a glimpse of something fierce and protective in those dark eyes. "Well, get used to it, lad. Things're gonna be different now."
From the corner where he'd been trying to blend into the wallpaper, Vernon found his courage again—or at least located it hiding under his considerable pride. "I DEMAND you leave this house at once!" he bellowed, apparently forgetting the rifle incident entirely. "He's not going to your crackpot school! We swore when we took him in we'd stamp it out of him!"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop about ten degrees.
Hagrid went very still, in the way that large, dangerous things go still just before they remind everyone exactly why they're considered dangerous. His bushy brows knit together like storm clouds gathering, and when he straightened to his full, towering height, he seemed to take up all the available space in the room and possibly some that hadn't existed before.
"Crackpot school?" he repeated, his voice quiet in a way that somehow made it infinitely more threatening than if he'd shouted. "Crackpot?" The word came out like he was tasting something unpleasant. "Yeh dare insult Hogwarts? Finest school o' witchcraft an' wizardry in the world? Greatest institution of magical learnin' that's ever existed?"
Harry leaned against the couch, arms crossed, watching the show with the kind of detached amusement usually reserved for particularly dramatic soap operas. "You probably shouldn't have said that, Uncle Vernon. I mean, I'm no expert on giant etiquette, but I'm pretty sure insulting someone's workplace is considered rude."
Vernon paled to a color that suggested his blood had decided discretion was the better part of valor and was considering relocating to someone with better survival instincts.
Hagrid took a step forward, and the floorboards groaned in protest. "Stamp it out of him?" he continued, his voice building like distant thunder. "STAMP IT OUT OF HIM? Yeh ignorant, narrow-minded—" He caught himself, visibly wrestling with his temper, then turned to Harry with an expression of horrified concern. "They don' know, do they? They haven' told yeh?"
Harry tilted his head, playing along even though he could probably recite the conversation from memory. "Told me what?"
"Yeh don' know what yeh are?" Hagrid asked, his voice cracking slightly. "What yeh really are?"
"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said simply. "And apparently, I'm a wizard. Though I'm still waiting for someone to explain exactly what that means beyond 'weird stuff happens around me.'"
Hagrid's jaw dropped. "Yeh... yeh know? But how could yeh—they said yeh didn't know anythin'—"
"I figured it out," Harry said with a shrug that was carefully calculated to look casual. "I mean, the alternative explanations were getting pretty far-fetched. Either I'm magical, or I have the worst luck in recorded history combined with a serious case of coincidental reality distortion."
"Figured it out?" Hagrid repeated, looking like Harry had just told him that two plus two equaled purple. "On yer own?"
"It's not exactly rocket science," Harry said. "Strange things happen when I'm emotional. Glass disappears when I'm angry. Hair grows back when I don't want it cut. Either I'm developing some very specific superpowers, or there's something different about me. Magic seemed like the simplest explanation."
From his corner, Vernon made a sound like a deflating tire. "There's nothing magical about it! He's just... he's just wrong! Abnormal! We told him his parents died in a car crash, and that's the truth!"
The words hung in the air like a bad smell.
Hagrid turned toward Vernon with an expression that could have curdled milk, carved stone, and possibly rearranged the fundamental constants of physics through pure indignation.
"A car crash?" Hagrid's voice was dangerously quiet. "A CAR CRASH?"
And just like that, Harry knew the storm outside was nothing compared to the storm that was about to break inside.
This was going to be good.
---
R.O.B. materialized his favorite recliner—a thing of impossible comfort that existed in seventeen dimensions simultaneously—and settled back with a bowl of popcorn that refilled itself and somehow always maintained the perfect butter-to-salt ratio. The viewing screen flickered to life, showing the interior of the hut where his latest project was about to witness the verbal equivalent of a volcanic eruption.
"Oh, this is the good bit," he muttered around a mouthful of kernels. "Hagrid's about to go absolutely mental."
On screen, Hagrid had gone that particular shade of red that suggested his blood pressure had just broken several laws of physics. The half-giant's beard was practically bristling with indignation, and his hands had curled into fists the size of Christmas hams.
"A car crash," Hagrid repeated, his voice carrying the kind of barely-contained fury that made hurricanes look like gentle breezes. "Yeh told him his parents died in a CAR CRASH?"
Vernon had gone the color of week-old porridge and was pressed against the wall like he was hoping it might suddenly develop a convenient escape hatch. "It... it was a perfectly reasonable explanation..."
"REASONABLE?" Hagrid bellowed, and R.O.B. watched with glee as the windows rattled in their frames. "James and Lily Potter, murdered by the darkest wizard in a century, and yeh tell the boy they died in a TRAFFIC ACCIDENT?"
R.O.B. paused the screen, chuckling as he watched Harry's carefully controlled expression in freeze-frame. The lad was doing brilliantly—playing his cards close to his chest while letting Hagrid do all the dramatic heavy lifting. Smart kid. Most reincarnators would've blown their cover by now, either by knowing too much or getting too emotional.
"Look at that," R.O.B. said to the empty cosmic space around him. "Kid's got the best poker face I've seen in three millennia. Acting like he's hearing this for the first time when he probably memorized this conversation chapter and verse." He tossed another handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Though to be fair, getting the full Hagrid experience is probably different from reading about it."
He unpaused the screen just as Hagrid was reaching the crescendo of his rant about You-Know-Who and the night the Potters died. Vernon had progressed from porridge-colored to what could charitably be described as 'concrete gray,' while Petunia had emerged from whatever corner she'd been hiding in to stare at Hagrid with the kind of horrified fascination usually reserved for natural disasters.
"And the best part," R.O.B. continued his commentary to no one in particular, "is that our boy Harry gets to experience all the emotional weight of this revelation while still keeping his cool. Two sets of memories mean double the impact, but Harry Smith's adult brain is keeping Harry Potter's eleven-year-old emotions in check. Beautiful balance, really."
On screen, Harry was asking measured questions about his parents, his scar, and Voldemort, letting Hagrid explain everything while carefully not revealing he already knew the answers. The kid was playing it perfectly—curious but not too knowledgeable, emotional but not overwhelmed.
"Oh, you magnificent little schemer," R.O.B. said proudly. "This is exactly the kind of clever thinking that's going to make this interesting. Less messianic hero nonsense, more strategic planning. I do so love it when they use their brains."
The popcorn bowl refilled itself as the drama continued to unfold below.
---
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