Harry woke to the sound of something tapping insistently against his forehead with the determination of a small, feathered debt collector. He cracked one eye open and found himself staring directly into the amber gaze of a barn owl that looked like it had opinions about his sleeping habits and wasn't shy about sharing them.
"Morning to you too," Harry mumbled, carefully sitting up so as not to disturb his avian visitor. The owl hooted once, as if acknowledging his greeting, then held out one leg where a rolled newspaper was tied with string that had seen better decades.
Hagrid stirred on his end of the couch, making sounds that suggested his body was filing formal complaints about sleeping on furniture that was clearly designed by someone who had only heard rumors about human anatomy.
"Hagrid," Harry said softly, not wanting to startle the man awake but also not wanting to deal with an increasingly impatient owl by himself. "You've got mail."
"Wha—? Oh." Hagrid blinked owlishly (rather fitting, given their visitor), his massive form unfolding from the couch like a small mountain coming to life. His hair was sticking up in seventeen different directions, and his beard looked like something small and confused might be living in it. "Right, yeah, that'll be the Daily Prophet. Always comes early, that one does."
He fumbled in his coat pockets with hands that were still thick with sleep, producing a series of items that defied any reasonable explanation of pocket capacity—a bent tea strainer, what looked like a rubber chicken, a compass that pointed in four directions simultaneously, and finally a leather pouch that jingled with the distinctive sound of coins.
"Here, Harry," Hagrid said, pressing the pouch into his hands while still looking like he was only operating on half his available brain power. "Pay the bird, will yeh? Poor thing's been flying all night, deserves proper compensation."
Harry opened the pouch and stared. The coins inside were nothing like any currency he'd ever seen—not that he'd seen much, given his financial situation with the Dursleys. There were large bronze coins the size of bottle caps, silver ones about the size of quarters, and smaller gold ones that caught the morning light filtering through the cracked windows.
"Er," Harry said, holding up the pouch and giving Hagrid his most helpless expression. "I have absolutely no idea what I'm looking at here. It's like someone took regular money and decided it needed to be more... medieval?"
Hagrid chuckled, his beard rustling like autumn leaves. "Right, 'course you wouldn't know, would yeh? Muggle money's completely different. These're wizard coins—Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons. Bronze, silver, and gold, in that order."
He reached over and plucked out a few bronze coins with fingers that made the coins look like decorative buttons. "Five Knuts should do it. These're the bronze ones—Knuts. Twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, seventeen Sickles to a Galleon. Bit mad, the whole system, but yeh get used to it eventually."
"Twenty-nine to seventeen?" Harry repeated, accepting the coins and offering them to the owl, who took them in its beak with the air of a professional conducting routine business. "Who designed this currency system—someone who was really committed to making math as difficult as possible?"
"Goblins," Hagrid said matter-of-factly, as if this explained everything. "They run the wizard bank, Gringotts. Been handling wizard money for centuries, they have. Very good at it, mind, but they've got their own ideas about proper numbering systems. Don't much care if it makes sense to the rest of us."
The owl gave Harry what could charitably be described as a businesslike nod, spread its wings, and launched itself out the nearest broken window with the satisfied air of someone who'd completed their appointed rounds and could now get on with more important matters, like breakfast and possibly a nap.
"Goblins run the bank," Harry said, filing that information away with his enhanced memory while reaching for the newspaper. "Right. Of course they do. Because why would wizards handle their own banking when you could outsource it to an entirely different species?"
"Very trustworthy, goblins are," Hagrid said, finally seeming to wake up properly as he began the process of making himself presentable—or at least, more presentable than 'recently awakened bear who'd been sleeping rough.' "Bit touchy about respect and proper protocol, mind, but honest as the day is long when it comes to money. Which is more than yeh can say for most humans, if we're being honest."
Harry unrolled the Daily Prophet, noting the quality of the paper—thicker than normal newsprint, with a slight texture that suggested it was made from something more exotic than standard wood pulp. The masthead was ornate and old-fashioned, the kind of typography that suggested the publication took itself very seriously indeed.
Then he saw the date, and his enhanced memory screeched to a halt like a car hitting a brick wall.
*31st July 2021.*
Harry blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. The date didn't change.
*2021. Not 1991.*
He felt a strange disconnect, like his brain was trying to run two different programs simultaneously. According to his enhanced memory of the books, Harry Potter received his Hogwarts letter in 1991. He turned eleven in 1991. The entire story took place in the 1990s, with Harry graduating in 1998.
But here he was, looking at a newspaper dated thirty years later.
*R.O.B.,* Harry thought with sudden understanding. *That magnificent, chaotic bastard changed the timeline.*
It made sense, in a weird way. Dropping Harry Smith—a person from 2024—into 1991 would have created massive complications. He'd know about future technology, historical events, cultural changes that hadn't happened yet. But 2021? That was close enough to his original time period that his knowledge would still be relevant without creating paradoxes.
*Plus,* Harry realized, *this means the wizarding world has had thirty extra years to develop. Maybe some things will be different. Maybe some problems will have already been solved.*
Or maybe they'd just found new and more creative ways to mess things up. With wizards, both options seemed equally likely.
"Something interesting in the paper?" Hagrid asked, now looking more like his usual self after running massive fingers through his hair and beard in what could generously be called grooming.
"Just checking the date," Harry said casually, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm. "Making sure I didn't sleep through the next century or anything. You know how it is when you're not used to magical transportation and cosmic waiting rooms."
Hagrid laughed, the sound booming through the small hut. "Aye, well, time does get a bit funny around magic sometimes. But no, it's still Tuesday, July thirty-first, just like it was when we went to sleep. Your birthday, in case yeh'd forgotten."
"Hard to forget, considering the magical birthday cake and the pig transformation entertainment," Harry said with a grin. "Though I have to say, as birthday parties go, this one's definitely in my top... well, it's my only birthday party, so I suppose it wins by default."
Something sad flickered across Hagrid's face. "Well, that's gonna change from now on, isn't it? Proper birthdays from here on out, with friends and presents and all the things yeh should've had all along."
Harry felt that familiar tightness in his chest—the combination of Harry Potter's desperate need for belonging and Harry Smith's adult understanding of what he'd been missing. "Looking forward to it," he said softly, and meant it.
"Right then," Hagrid said, clapping his hands together with a sound like small thunder, "best get moving. Long day ahead of us, and London's not getting any closer while we sit here chatting. Go on, get yourself ready while I sort out breakfast."
Harry looked down at himself, taking inventory. He was still wearing the same oversized, hand-me-down clothes he'd had on when Hagrid arrived—Dudley's castoffs that hung on his thin frame like a tent on a flagpole. His hair was doing its usual impression of something that had been struck by lightning and decided it liked the look.
"I don't suppose there's much I can do to improve this situation," Harry said, gesturing at his general appearance. "These are literally the best clothes I own, and that's a pretty sad commentary on my life up to this point."
"Don't yeh worry about that," Hagrid said with a dismissive wave. "Soon as we get to Diagon Alley, we'll get yeh proper robes and everything else yeh need. Can't have yeh starting Hogwarts looking like... well, like yeh've been living with the Dursleys."
While Hagrid bustled about producing breakfast from his seemingly infinite coat pockets—sandwiches that were only slightly squashed, a thermos of tea that was still somehow hot, and what appeared to be homemade biscuits that looked considerably safer than the cake from the night before—Harry used the small, cracked mirror above what passed for a sink to make himself as presentable as possible.
His reflection stared back at him with those distinctive green eyes that everyone kept mentioning, framed by the messy black hair that no amount of water or frustrated combing could tame, and marked by the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. It was still strange, looking at Harry Potter's face instead of Harry Smith's, but he was getting used to it.
*At least I'm not wearing glasses,* he thought with relief. *That would've been one more thing to keep track of.*
"Ready when you are," Harry announced, accepting a sandwich that turned out to be surprisingly good—thick slices of brown bread with what tasted like real butter and jam.
"Right, off we go then." Hagrid shouldered his enormous coat and gestured toward the door, which was still hanging at a distinctly unnatural angle from his dramatic entrance the night before. "Boat's just down the beach. Not much of a ride, mind, but it'll get us back to the mainland."
They made their way out of the hut and down to the rocky beach where a small wooden boat bobbed in the choppy water. It looked like the kind of vessel that had seen better decades and probably had stories to tell that would make a sailor blush. Hagrid helped Harry into the boat with the careful attention of someone who knew exactly how easy it was to accidentally launch a small person into deep water, then climbed in himself, making the entire boat list dramatically to one side.
"Don't worry," Hagrid said cheerfully, noting Harry's slightly alarmed expression as water lapped dangerously close to the boat's edge. "She's sturdier than she looks. Made this trip dozens of times, I have. Never lost anyone yet."
"Yet," Harry repeated dryly, gripping the sides of the boat as Hagrid picked up the oars. "That's very reassuring, thank you."
Hagrid began rowing with the kind of determination that suggested he was personally offended by the distance between the rock and the mainland. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the splash of oars, the cry of seabirds, and Hagrid's increasingly creative commentary about the weather, the tides, and the general inconvenience of having to travel anywhere by manual labor.
Harry unfolded the Daily Prophet and began reading while Hagrid rowed, partly out of curiosity and partly to avoid watching the shoreline approach at what seemed like geological speeds.
The front page was dominated by a story about new regulations for magical creature imports, complete with a moving photograph of what appeared to be a small dragon being inspected by stern-looking officials in bowler hats. Other headlines included "Ministry Announces New Security Measures for Gringotts," "Quidditch World Cup Preparations Underway," and "Healer Shortage Continues at St. Mungo's."
It all seemed remarkably... normal. Routine government business and sports news, the kind of stuff that filled newspapers when there wasn't anything particularly dramatic happening. No mention of Dark Lords or mysterious disappearances or ominous portents.
*Maybe,* Harry thought hopefully, *thirty years later means the wizarding world has actually gotten its act together.*
"Bloody hell," Hagrid muttered, his rowing becoming increasingly erratic as he wrestled with the oars. "This is taking forever. At this rate, we'll get to London sometime next week."
Harry looked up from the paper to see Hagrid glaring at the water like it had personally insulted his mother. Sweat was beading on the giant's forehead despite the cool morning air, and his usually cheerful expression had been replaced by something that suggested he was reconsidering his life choices, particularly the ones that involved manual labor.
"Is everything okay?" Harry asked, though he already had a pretty good idea what was coming next.
"Just..." Hagrid huffed, pulling harder on the oars with diminishing results. "Just takes longer than I remembered, that's all. Been a while since I did this trip without... well, without shortcuts."
He glanced around, apparently checking to make sure they were alone on the water, then reached into his coat and pulled out the familiar pink umbrella that Harry knew contained the broken remains of Hagrid's Hogwarts wand.
"Now, Harry," Hagrid said, his voice suddenly serious, "what I'm about to do—yeh didn't see it, right? I'm not supposed to use magic outside of school grounds, technically speaking. Only got permission from Dumbledore to use it for getting to yeh safely, and even that's bending the rules something fierce."
Harry nodded solemnly, though inside he was practically vibrating with excitement. He was about to see actual magic—not accidental magic like making glass disappear or hair grow back, but deliberate, intentional spellcasting.
Hagrid pointed the umbrella at the back of the boat and muttered something under his breath that sounded like it was probably Latin but could have been ancient Welsh for all Harry could tell.
The effect was immediate and spectacular.
The boat lurched forward like someone had just strapped a rocket to the stern, cutting through the water with a grace and speed that completely defied its ramshackle appearance. What had been a tedious rowing exercise became a smooth, exhilarating ride across the choppy surface, with the mainland approaching at a rate that actually made sense for people who had places to be.
Harry couldn't help himself—he laughed with pure delight, the sound carried away by the wind as they skimmed across the water. This was magic. Real, honest-to-goodness magic, and it was exactly as wonderful as he'd always imagined it would be.
"That," Harry said when he could speak again, "was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Can you teach me how to do that?"
Hagrid beamed with pride, his earlier frustration completely forgotten. "Oh, yeh'll learn plenty of magic at Hogwarts, don't yeh worry. Proper magic, taught by proper professors who know what they're doing. This is just... well, just a bit of help from an old wand that's seen better days."
"Still brilliant," Harry insisted, and meant it. He was grinning so widely his face hurt, and he didn't care. This was his new life, his new world, and it was starting off better than he'd dared to hope.
The mainland was rushing toward them now, and Harry could see a small dock where Hagrid apparently planned to moor the boat. Beyond that, Harry caught glimpses of what looked like a small village—stone buildings with slate roofs, narrow streets, and the general air of a place that had been quietly existing for centuries without feeling the need to change much.
*This is really happening,* Harry thought, folding the Daily Prophet carefully and tucking it away. *In a few hours, I'll be walking through Diagon Alley, buying a wand, seeing actual wizards and witches going about their daily lives.*
The enhanced memory potion meant he could recall every detail he'd ever read about the magical shopping district, but he was curious to see how thirty years had changed things. Would there be new shops? New technology? Would it still be the same charming, slightly chaotic place J.K. Rowling had described, or would it have evolved into something completely different?
*Only one way to find out,* Harry decided as Hagrid guided the boat expertly to the dock. *Time to see what the wizarding world of 2021 looks like.*
And honestly? He couldn't wait.
---
The dock creaked ominously under Hagrid's weight as they climbed out of the boat, but held together with the stubborn determination of British craftsmanship that refused to admit defeat. Harry stretched muscles that had cramped during the boat ride, enjoying the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet even if that ground was slightly damp and smelled of fish and seaweed.
"Right then," Hagrid said, securing the boat with a rope that looked like it had been salvaged from a shipwreck sometime during the previous century. "Now we've got to get to London proper. Can't use magic for travel—too many Ministry regulations about underage wizards and unauthorized apparition and all that bureaucratic nonsense. We'll have to do this the Muggle way."
"Which is?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer and wasn't particularly thrilled about it.
"Train," Hagrid said with the air of someone delivering unfortunate but unavoidable news. "There's a station about a mile up the road. Takes us straight into King's Cross, it does. Bit of a journey, mind, but it's reliable enough."
Harry nodded, shouldering his pathetically small collection of belongings—basically just the clothes on his back and the Daily Prophet tucked under his arm. "Lead the way."
They made their way up a winding path that seemed to have been designed by someone who believed in the character-building properties of unnecessary hills and random obstacles. The village they passed through was exactly the kind of place that appeared in tourism brochures under headings like "Unspoiled British Countryside" and "Hidden Gems." Stone cottages with thatched roofs, narrow streets that had been laid out sometime before anyone had invented the radical concept of straight lines, and the general atmosphere of a place where the most exciting thing that happened in a given year was probably the annual flower show.
"Lovely little place," Hagrid commented as they walked. "Bit quiet for me tastes, mind, but peaceful enough. Sort of place where yeh can think without all the noise and bustle of the city."
Harry made appropriate agreeable noises, but his mind was elsewhere, churning through implications and possibilities with his enhanced memory running at full capacity. The timeline shift from 1991 to 2021 was significant, certainly, but there were more immediate concerns to consider.
Like the fact that he was almost certainly carrying a piece of Voldemort's soul in his head.
The realization hit him like a physical blow, so sudden and obvious that he actually stumbled slightly on the uneven path. Hagrid caught his arm with one massive hand, steadying him with casual ease.
"You all right there, Harry? Not feeling seasick, are yeh?"
"No, just... thinking," Harry managed, his mind racing through the implications. "Still processing everything, I guess."
*How could I not have thought of this sooner?* he berated himself internally. *Enhanced memory, perfect recall of the entire bloody series, and I somehow missed the most important detail?*
But of course he had the memories. Harry Potter's memories. Including the incident at the zoo with the Brazilian boa constrictor, when he'd somehow made the glass vanish and had a conversation with a snake that had seemed perfectly normal at the time.
He was a Parselmouth. Which, according to everything he knew about magical theory and Voldemort's methods, meant there was almost certainly a piece of the Dark Lord's soul embedded in his scar like some kind of horrific spiritual parasite.
*Well,* Harry thought with dark humor, *that's definitely going on the priority list. Right at the top, actually.*
"System," he whispered under his breath, so quietly that even Hagrid's sharp hearing wouldn't catch it.
To his surprise, the familiar blue screen materialized in front of his eyes, visible only to him.
[DAILY CHECK-IN SYSTEM]
[Query Detected. Processing...]
[User Question: Horcrux Status Confirmation?]
*Can you confirm whether I'm currently hosting unwanted spiritual passengers?* Harry thought, directing the question at the system with the desperate hope that cosmic customer service extended to soul-related technical difficulties.
[Scanning... Scanning Complete.]
[CONFIRMED: Horcrux fragment detected in user's forehead scar.]
[Fragment contains approximately 12.7% of original soul - Tom Marvolo Riddle]
[Status: Inactive but present. No immediate threat to user consciousness.]
[Side effects: Parseltongue ability, occasional psychic connection to primary soul, enhanced resistance to certain mind magics]
Harry's steps faltered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the uneven path. Seeing it confirmed in stark, clinical terms made it somehow more real and more terrifying than just suspecting it.
*Inactive but present.* That was... something, at least. Better than 'actively trying to possess you' or 'slowly corrupting your personality.'
*Is there a way to remove it?* he thought desperately. *Some kind of... I don't know, magical surgery? Soul cleansing? Exorcism?*
[Processing advanced query...]
[Multiple removal methods exist in theoretical framework.]
[WARNING: Standard removal methods carry 67-89% fatality rate for host.]
[Alternative method available through System Rewards.]
[Item: Purification Essence of the Phoenix - Legendary Tier]
[Effect: Safely removes foreign soul fragments while preserving host integrity]
[Availability: 365-day consecutive check-in streak required]
[Current User Streak: 1 Day]
Harry nearly walked into a stone wall.
*Three hundred and sixty-five days.* A full year of perfect daily check-ins, no missed days, no broken streaks. It was doable, certainly—he had his enhanced memory now, which meant he was unlikely to simply forget. But it also meant living with a piece of Voldemort in his head for an entire year while trying to navigate Hogwarts, teenage drama, and the general chaos that seemed to follow Harry Potter wherever he went.
*Still,* he thought with grim determination, *better than a sixty-seven to eighty-nine percent chance of death. Those are not odds I want to gamble with.*
"Harry?" Hagrid's voice broke through his internal crisis management session. "Yeh've gone a bit pale there. Sure yeh're feeling all right?"
"Just... processing," Harry said again, which was becoming his standard response to overwhelming revelations. "It's a lot to take in, you know? Finding out you're a wizard, learning about your parents, discovering that the entire world you thought you knew is basically a lie... it's quite a mental adjustment."
Hagrid's expression softened with sympathy. "Aye, I imagine it would be. Don't worry though—it gets easier. Soon as yeh get to Hogwarts, soon as yeh start learning proper magic and making friends who understand what it's like... it'll all start to feel normal. Well, as normal as anything gets in our world."
"Looking forward to it," Harry said, and meant it more than Hagrid could possibly know. Hogwarts represented safety, learning, friends, and most importantly, a place where he could start working on solving his various supernatural problems without having to explain to anyone why he was so interested in advanced soul magic and Horcrux removal techniques.
*Three hundred and sixty-four days to go,* he thought as they finally reached the small train station. *I can do this. I have to do this.*
The alternative—living with a piece of Voldemort permanently attached to his soul—was simply unacceptable.
Besides, he was Harry Potter now, wasn't he? The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the protagonist of his own story. If anyone could maintain a perfect daily check-in streak while attending magical school and dealing with the usual teenage nonsense, it would be him.
*At least,* Harry thought as he followed Hagrid toward the ticket booth, *that's what I'm going to keep telling myself.*
The real challenge would be remembering to check in every single day while dealing with whatever fresh chaos the wizarding world of 2021 was going to throw at him.
But first: Diagon Alley, his first wand, and his first real taste of the magical world as someone who actually belonged there.
*One crisis at a time,* Harry decided. *That's definitely going to be my motto for this life.*
---
In the space between spaces, where reality was more of a suggestion than a requirement, R.O.B. had assembled what he considered the perfect viewing setup. His chair—a thing of impossible comfort that existed in seventeen dimensions and had built-in lumbar support that defied the laws of physics—reclined at the optimal angle for both relaxation and cosmic voyeurism. The popcorn bowl beside him refilled itself with kernels that somehow maintained the perfect balance of butter, salt, and existential satisfaction.
The viewing screen floating before him was currently split into multiple feeds: Harry walking alongside Hagrid toward the train station, the Dursleys back at the hut dealing with Dudley's persistent tail situation, and a small corner window showing various probability streams branching out like a cosmic decision tree.
"Oh, this is getting interesting," R.O.B. muttered, pausing mid-chew as he watched Harry's internal crisis about the Horcrux fragment. The lad had gone quite pale when the System confirmed his worst fears, and R.O.B. had to admit he felt a twinge of something that might have been sympathy. Just a twinge, mind you—he wasn't going soft.
He waved his hand, and additional data streams appeared around the main screen: Harry's stress levels (elevated but manageable), his determination index (surprisingly high), and a small ticker showing his current check-in streak (a modest but promising 1 Day).
"Three hundred and sixty-five days," R.O.B. said to the cosmic void, which had learned not to talk back after the last few millennia of R.O.B.'s commentary. "Could've made it easier for him, I suppose. Maybe a hundred days, or even fifty. But where's the character development in that? Besides, if it was easy, everyone would be walking around without bits of Dark Lords stuck to their foreheads."
He gestured, and the probability streams expanded, showing various potential futures branching out like the world's most complex decision tree. In some branches, Harry succeeded magnificently, maintaining his streak and removing the Horcrux to live a relatively normal magical life. In others... well, in others things got considerably more complicated.
"Look at that beautiful determination," R.O.B. continued, zooming in on Harry's face as the boy followed Hagrid toward the train station. "Most people would be having a proper breakdown right about now. 'Oh no, I've got a piece of Voldemort in my head, whatever shall I do?' But this one? This one's already making plans."
Indeed, Harry's enhanced memory was working overtime, cross-referencing everything he knew about Horcruxes, soul magic, and magical theory. R.O.B. watched with something approaching parental pride as the lad's mental processes worked through various scenarios and contingencies.
"The Enhanced Memory Potion was a stroke of genius on my part," R.O.B. said modestly, though there was no one around to disagree with him. "Perfect first reward—practical, useful, not flashy enough to attract unwanted attention, but absolutely essential for what's coming. He's going to need every advantage he can get."
The screen flickered to show a different timeline—one where R.O.B. had dropped Harry into 1991 as originally written. The complications were immediately apparent: Harry trying to explain why he knew about smartphones and the internet, historical events that wouldn't happen for years, cultural references that wouldn't exist for decades. It would have been a mess.
"2021 was definitely the right call," R.O.B. nodded to himself. "Close enough to his original timeline that his knowledge stays relevant, but far enough from the original story that things can develop naturally. Plus, thirty years of magical advancement means new possibilities, new solutions, new ways for everything to go spectacularly wrong."
He pulled up another data stream showing the current state of the wizarding world circa 2021. It was... complicated. Voldemort's defeat in 1998 had indeed happened, but the aftermath had brought its own set of challenges. Political upheaval, social reform movements, generational conflicts between old pureblood families and newer progressive wizards, ongoing tensions with the Ministry, debates about magical education reform...
"Oh yes," R.O.B. grinned, his eyes literally twinkling with galaxies. "Our boy Harry is walking into a world that's solved some problems but created entirely new ones. Much more interesting than the standard 'Dark Lord returns, hero defeats him, everyone lives happily ever after' narrative."
On screen, Harry was now helping Hagrid purchase train tickets, still looking slightly shell-shocked from his revelation about the Horcrux but maintaining his composure admirably. The ticket clerk—a middle-aged woman with the tired expression of someone who dealt with the general public for a living—barely glanced at the enormous man and the thin boy in oversized clothes.
"Look at him adapting," R.O.B. said with genuine admiration. "Two lifetimes worth of memories, cosmic reincarnation, finding out he's got a piece of the most evil wizard in history lodged in his brain, and he's still managing to function. Still being helpful, still thinking ahead, still planning for the future. That's proper protagonist material, that is."
The probability streams shifted and updated as Harry's determination solidified. The odds of him successfully maintaining his check-in streak for a full year ticked upward slightly—not dramatically, but enough to make R.O.B. lean forward with interest.
"Three hundred and sixty-four days to go," R.O.B. murmured, watching as Harry and Hagrid boarded the train to London. "Think you can do it, lad? Think you can keep that streak going while dealing with Hogwarts, teenage drama, whatever fresh chaos the wizarding world decides to throw at you?"
The train began to move, carrying Harry toward London, toward Diagon Alley, toward his first wand and his first real steps into the magical world as someone who belonged there. R.O.B. adjusted his viewing angle to follow the journey, settling back into his impossible chair with the satisfaction of someone watching a particularly engaging television program.
"Course, I could have made it simpler," he mused aloud, tossing another handful of perfect popcorn into his mouth. "Could have given him an overpowered system that solved all his problems with minimal effort. Could have made him instantly powerful, instantly knowledgeable, instantly capable of reshaping reality to his whims."
He paused, considering this alternate approach, then shook his head decisively.
"But where's the fun in that? Where's the growth, the struggle, the character development? Anyone can be handed ultimate power on a silver platter. It takes real strength of character to work for it, to earn it one day at a time, to maintain discipline and determination in the face of uncertainty."
The viewing screen showed Harry staring out the train window, his reflection overlaid with streams of data showing his enhanced memory processing everything he'd learned, his determination levels holding steady, his stress indicators gradually stabilizing as he began to formulate concrete plans.
"Besides," R.O.B. added with a grin that suggested he was particularly pleased with himself, "this way is much more entertaining. Nothing like a bit of genuine challenge to separate the truly worthy protagonists from the pretenders."
He waved his hand, and the screen zoomed out to show the broader scope of Harry's journey—not just the immediate future of Diagon Alley and Hogwarts, but the long-term implications of his choices, the ripple effects of his presence in this altered timeline, the countless ways his actions might reshape the wizarding world.
"Three hundred and sixty-five days," R.O.B. repeated, raising an imaginary toast with his self-refilling drink. "Here's to hoping our boy Harry has what it takes. Should be quite a show either way."
The train continued toward London, carrying Harry Potter toward his destiny—whatever that might turn out to be in this strange new version of the wizarding world. And high above, in the space between realities, R.O.B. settled in to watch it all unfold with the enthusiasm of someone who had front-row seats to the most interesting story in the multiverse.
"Now then," he said to the cosmic void, "let's see what happens when Harry Potter meets Diagon Alley 2021. I have a feeling it's going to be considerably different from what he's expecting."
---
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