The world outside was dull and gray, a blur of windblown leaves and winter drizzle. But inside the deep belly of Harry's enchanted trunk, nestled within the warm flicker of floating orbs of light, the world was a completely different place—silent, golden, timeless.
Harry sat curled into the cushions of the living room couch, his bare feet tucked beneath him, a steaming mug of cocoa hovering by his side, kept warm by a gentle Warming Charm he'd just learned to cast that morning.
In his lap sat a thick leather-bound journal—old, worn, and bursting with handwritten entries, magical doodles, enchanted moving pictures, and long tales of mischief and youth. Burnished in faded gold across the cover were the words:
"The Noble and Most Excellent Adventures of Sirius Black"
It wasn't a spellbook. It wasn't a tome of dueling techniques or potion recipes or magical beasts.
But it was magic. A different kind of magic. A magic that bled through the ink and across every page.
Because it was real.
Every entry, every anecdote, every lazy scribble and arrogant doodle—it painted a picture of a time before darkness had swallowed the wizarding world. A time when Sirius Black and James Potter ruled the corridors of Hogwarts as best friends, pranksters, and Gryffindor legends.
"First day. Bloody train's longer than our old house. Found my compartment, and some scrawny-haired kid walks in—James Potter. Second cousin twice removed or something, Mum would know. Didn't care. He had that spark, the same one I saw in the mirror when I told my house-elf to stick it. We're going to rule this school."
Harry grinned as he read the lines again for the third time.
They were so full of life—these boys who had once lived in the very castle Harry dreamed of. He saw them in his mind's eye: young Sirius with his dark, rebellious hair and cocky smirk; James with his messy locks, glasses constantly slipping down his nose, and a wand always halfway out his pocket ready to hex a Slytherin or levitate a custard pie into a professor's beard.
And then, Lily Evans—his mother. She appeared in the margins at first. Sirius's descriptions were always a mix of grudging admiration and sarcastic commentary.
"Lily Evans glared at us today for putting dungbombs in Snivellus Snape's cauldron. She had that whole 'I'm disappointed' face. James, the idiot, looked like he was going to melt. Merlin, he's in deep."
Harry chuckled softly. He knew now that Lily had been brilliant, kind, and fiercely loyal. A prefect. Top of her class. Sirius complained, but it was clear in every line that he respected her—even loved her like a sister, though he'd never admit it outright.
The photos tucked into the journal were even more precious.
James, throwing his arm around Sirius as they laughed on the Quidditch pitch. Lily sitting by the Black Lake, throwing pebbles and rolling her eyes as James tried to juggle snitches. Even Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, back when they were just four friends without a war hanging over their heads.
And then—Harry's favorite photo.
It was creased from how many times he'd unfolded and refolded it.
His parents' wedding.
Lily in flowing white robes, a garland of soft pink flowers in her red hair, laughing as James, wearing the goofiest grin imaginable, kissed her cheek and looked as if he'd just won the world. Sirius stood beside them, dressed in deep burgundy robes, pretending to look bored, but his eyes twinkled with pride.
Harry ran his fingers over the image, the photograph waving cheerfully back.
He had a family. He had proof.
He is Harry Potter. Son of James and Lily Potter.
And he would live up to them.
In the weeks that followed, Harry spent nearly every night in the enchanted library within his trunk, curled up with a journal in one hand and a wand in the other. Though the wands he'd taken from the kidnappers weren't exactly "his," they responded well enough.
Sirius had left behind more than memories. In the back pages of the journal were scrawled spells and enchantments, half-finished diagrams of pranks, charmed parchment tricks, even a recipe for a "Fart Bomb Hex" that made Harry wheeze with laughter.
He'd practice in the library, giggling to himself when sparks came out in strange colors or when he accidentally made the chair moo like a cow.
With no teachers, no curriculum, and no one to say what he could or couldn't do, Harry built his own education.
He started slow—basic levitation spells, light charms, even wandless incantations when he could. And slowly, he grew stronger. More confident.
It wasn't just pranks and fun, either. He read deeper into Defense Against the Dark Arts, especially the chapters on Dark Wizards. The name Voldemort—he'd seen it in a few older books. Whispers and warnings.
That was the man who killed his parents. That was the man who tried to kill him.
The more Harry read, the more determined he became.
One night, with the windows shut tight and candles flickering, Harry stared into the mirror in his bathroom.
He wore one of his new dragonhide jackets over a sleeveless tunic. A leather wand holster was strapped to his forearm, and his jet-black hair was messy as ever.
He stared into his reflection and whispered, "I don't want to be just the Boy Who Lived."
His hand curled around the wand.
"I want to be ready. I want to be strong."
By the time January rolled into February, Harry had read nearly half of the Sirius Black's journal.
Potions were messy, but fun—his cauldron set never stopped bubbling. Transfiguration was tricky without a teacher, but he managed to turn his spoon into a wooden mouse (though it still squeaked when he tried to eat cereal with it). And Charms became his favorite subject—particularly anything with levitation, shielding, or summoning.
He even created his own little magical training schedule.
And always, at the end of each night, he returned to Sirius's journal.
The stories of his parents made everything real.
They weren't just names on a grave.
They were people. They were pranksters. Lovers. Fighters.
And they were his.
One night, Harry closed the journal after reading about how Sirius and James once turned all the Slytherin uniforms into neon pink for a week.
He laughed, leaned back on the velvet couch, and whispered to the ceiling:
"Don't worry, Dad. Mum. I'll make you proud."
The candles dimmed. The warmth of the room hummed like a soft lullaby.
Outside, in the world above, thunder rumbled across the distant skies of London.
As if the heavens themselves were listening.
The chill of early spring clung to the air as the school bus rolled into the heart of London, weaving through the streets with a hum of diesel and teenage chatter. Harry sat by the window, his forehead pressed lightly against the cool glass. Buildings flashed past in dull grays and browns, but Harry hardly noticed the landmarks or the teacher's voice droning on from the front.
This wasn't his first time seeing London—but it was his first time seeing it with his new found confidence.
He had spent the entire evenings studying magic, history, defense, even brewing potions. He'd taught himself how to feel the thrum of spells, how to sense the flicker of enchantments layered over objects or people.
And that was why he noticed it.
In the midst of the crowd near Piccadilly Circus, where tourists bustled and pigeons swarmed the cobblestones, a faint hum of power tore through the fabric of reality.
A star-shaped portal opened in midair—brilliant and brief, but unmistakably magical. It shimmered for only a moment before collapsing inwards like a dying star, leaving behind two figures standing on the sidewalk.
A tall woman with crimson red hair and a long burgundy coat.
And beside her, a shorter girl with chopped black hair, wearing a denim jacket adorned with a glowing star at the back.
Harry's eyes widened.
The two were magical for sure.
He could feel it—just as clearly as he felt the beat of his heart.
Without thinking, he slipped away from his school group, ignoring the teacher calling out names and the laughter of classmates. His new clothes fit him perfectly: dark jeans, a forest green hoodie, and dragon-hide sneakers that barely made a sound. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, keeping his eyes on the two women.
They walked slowly, the taller one glancing around with a strange mix of purpose and confusion. The shorter girl—perhaps seventeen or eighteen—kept talking animatedly, gesturing toward signs and streets.
And then, as Harry stepped closer, the red-haired woman turned to look at him.
Harry froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
Her face… it was like looking at a living portrait of his mother.
She was older, more mature, and her eyes glowed faintly with hidden power—but the resemblance was uncanny. Harry stumbled forward, lips parting without thought.
"…Mum?"
The woman blinked, startled. Her expression softened—but only for a moment.
"I'm sorry, kid," she said gently, her voice rich with an unfamiliar accent. "I'm not your mother."
Harry looked down, heat rushing to his face. "Right. Sorry. I just… you look like her. My mum died when I was a baby. It's just… you reminded me of her."
He turned quickly and walked away, embarrassed. He had barely gone five steps before he heard the other girl whisper:
"What if he is your son, Wanda?"
Harry paused, just within earshot now, his back to them.
"I told you," the red-haired woman—Wanda—replied quietly. "That's not Billy. Or Tommy. I'd know."
"But you created Billy and Tommy," the girl argued. "You used your magic to create them. They were never born. They never had a father."
Wanda stiffened. "That doesn't make them any less real."
"I didn't say they weren't real," the girl said, gentler now. "But you do realize what that means, don't you? Your sons only exist in universes where you made them. From magic. They don't have… biological father."
The wind rustled through the alleyway as the noise of London faded into a distant hum. Wanda turned to look back toward the boy now disappearing into the crowd, her thoughts tangled.
America Chavez sighed. "What I'm saying is… you're searching for sons that can't exist naturally in any other universe—unless you, you know… actually had them. Like, with a man. You understand, right?"
Wanda didn't respond.
"You can't just keep traveling from world to world hoping you'll find a perfect replica of what you created. That's not how life works," America added softly. "But what if… what if this world's You did have a son and he resembled his birth father? And what if he just met his mother's face on someone else? What then?"
Wanda looked back in the direction Harry had vanished, her gaze distant.
"But… he's too young. That boy—he was maybe seven or eight. That would mean I'd have had to—" She stopped. Her mind did the math, tracing memories of places she had visited. Lives she had glimpsed. Possibilities unspoken.
She whispered, "What if… I was born early here?"
America's jaw tightened. "If that's the case… then maybe you found something more real than Billy or Tommy."
Wanda's hands trembled slightly. Her magic stirred at her fingertips.
"We need to be careful," she said at last, turning away. "We're not here to cause chaos. Not this time."
"Yeah, you said that before," America said, rolling her eyes with a smirk. "Let's not burn down this City too, okay?"
Wanda gave her a half-hearted glare. "That was one time."
Far ahead, Harry had rejoined the school group, slipping silently back into the crowd of students. No one had noticed he'd left.
But his mind was reeling.
Who were those women? How had they arrived through a star-shaped portal?
And why… why did that woman look so much like his mother?
"Harry!" one of his classmates nudged him. "You alright? You look like you saw a ghost."
Harry forced a small smile. "Yeah. Just… London's full of surprises, I guess."
But even as the tour moved on—past the museums and statues and wide glass buildings—Harry's thoughts remained rooted in that alley.
The red-haired woman.
Her eyes.
Her magic.
And the feeling that, somehow, this world was growing much, much bigger than he'd ever imagined.
It had all begun with blood, grief, and broken glass.
When Wanda Maximoff—known across dimensions as the Scarlet Witch—tried to steal the power of America Chavez, the girl who could punch holes through reality, the multiverse trembled. Wanda had been drowning in the agony of loss, her children gone like a dream dissolved by daylight. Her rage had twisted her morality. She had torn through entire realities to reach what she believed was rightfully hers—her sons, Billy and Tommy.
But at the edge of her madness, she had been stopped.
Not by brute force, not by Stephen Strange's magic, and not by her own guilt. She had been stopped by compassion—by America herself.
"I'll help you," the girl had said, voice shaking but steady. "But not like this. Not by killing the other Wanda. Not by becoming the monster the world fears. I'll help you find a version of your children… where the mother is already gone. Where no one has to die."
Wanda had stood on the precipice of the Wundagore Mountain ruins, crimson chaos swirling in her palms, and for the first time in months, hesitated. America's words had echoed in her heart louder than the screams of her grief.
And she chose a different path.
They became travelers.
Not to conquer or to rule, but to search—for versions of the boys that she might raise with love, not violence. Versions born of her, or her alternate self, in worlds where Wanda had succumbed to disease, to accident, to time. They found many dead ends. Worlds without her. Worlds without children. Worlds where her name was spoken like a curse. And once, they'd nearly been caught in a timeline where Ultron ruled everything.
But now, here they were.
In London.
In a world that felt eerily ordinary.
And then… they met him.
A boy.
With untidy black hair, electric blue eyes, and something flickering just beneath the surface—power.
He'd called her "Mom."
Wanda stared at the empty air where Harry had stood few minutes ago, the crowd now swallowed him whole. Her fingers trembled as they reached for the air, as if the memory of his voice still echoed there.
America Chavez stood beside her, arms crossed, her face drawn in both caution and sympathy.
America didn't answer immediately. "He didn't look like you."
"And he didn't have my powers," Wanda whispered. "He didn't feel like… me."
"No," America said. "But he felt like someone powerful. Like someone shaped by magic."
Wanda looked down at her hands, crimson magic curling softly over her fingers like a heartbeat. "You said it yourself. In some universes, maybe I… did have children. The normal way."
America didn't know what to say to that.
The problem was, this wasn't the first time Wanda had felt a connection. There were other children—other boys and girls who had same eyes as her or high cheekbones or a voice that cracked the same way Billy's used to when he got excited. But none of them were her Billy. None of them had her Tommy's chaotic laughter and most importantly they had mothers who are alive.
But this time… this time was different.
This boy had called her Mom.
And for a second—just one fragile, beautiful second—she wanted to believe it was real.
America reached out and touched Wanda's arm. "We should find out more about him. Carefully. No kidnappings, no memory wipes, no chaos magic. If we're going to look into this, we do it the normal way."
Wanda smiled faintly, the first smile she'd allowed herself in days.
"Alright," she agreed. "But we stay quiet.I don't want to frighten him."
America nodded, stepping back. "And no showing up outside his window at night like a creep."
Wanda gave her a sideways glance. "One time. I did that once."
"Your eyes were glowing red. That's nightmare fuel."
They turned to walk down the alley, blending into the crowd once more. But even as they vanished into London's maze of streets, Wanda's heart beat faster than it had in years.
If this boy truly was hers—if in this world, she had a son born not of magic but of love and loss—then maybe, just maybe, her journey across the multiverse was finally drawing to its end.
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