The clatter of footsteps and chattering voices echoed through the stone corridors of the Tower of London, but Harry heard none of it.
He was walking in the middle of the group, eyes darting left and right, scanning every figure in the crowd. His classmates were laughing, nudging each other, pointing at ancient swords and dusty armor displayed in tall glass cases—but Harry's thoughts were far from the exhibits.
His right hand clenched tightly inside the pocket of his coat, wrapped firmly around the wand he had tucked into his bag earlier that morning. It pulsed faintly with the heat of his grip, almost as if sensing his unease.
"Oi, Potter!" a sneering voice hissed from behind.
Harry flinched before turning.
Dudley swaggered toward him, arms thrown over the shoulders of two of his cronies. "What's with that face? Scared the old crown jewels are cursed or something?"
A few kids snorted, and Dudley puffed up with pride.
Harry didn't respond. He simply turned back around, ignoring the laughter, ignoring the heat rising to his cheeks. If only they knew. If anyone knew.
The two women—the witches—they were still out there.
He had seen the portal with his own eyes. It shimmered like a star bursting open in the air, and they stepped through as if walking. And the taller one... the one with the deep red hair and piercing eyes… she looked just like his mother. Too much like her.
She had called him "kid."
He couldn't shake the sound of her voice or the way her eyes narrowed when he looked at her. Not angry. Not mocking. But curious. Calculating.
He was foolish—so foolish—to approach them. He'd revealed his face, spoken to them, even breathed the word Mom out loud. What if they weren't random witches? What if they were here because of what happened in Knockturn Alley? He'd read in one of his books that the wizarding world had law enforcement. Aurors, they were called. What if she was one of them? What if the red-haired witch had come to arrest him for killing those traffickers?
He hadn't meant to kill them. The lightning… it had come from nowhere. Or perhaps, deep down, he had summoned it.
And they had burned to ash.
A tap on his shoulder made him jolt so hard he nearly dropped his wand.
"Whoa, sorry!" his friend Marcus laughed. "You've been in zombie mode all day, mate. You alright?"
Harry nodded stiffly. "Yeah. Just didn't sleep much."
"You sure?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Even during the museum talk, you looked like you were gonna faint. And you're gripping your bag like it's going to fly away."
Harry forced a chuckle and loosened his grip. "It's nothing. Just... cold."
Marcus gave him a skeptical look but shrugged. "Well, come on. They said we're heading to the next site—some Roman ruins or something."
As they made their way out of the Tower, Harry lagged at the back, head low. But every few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder, scanning the busy streets, searching every face.
Were they following him? Was the red-haired witch somewhere in the crowd, watching?
And then he remembered the second girl—the one with short black hair, younger, American maybe. She'd said something strange. Something about making babies needing a father. The way she talked, like she wasn't just joking about family… but seriously discussing where Harry might have come from.
His blood turned to ice.
What if they were trying to take him? Not arrest him. Claim him.
What if he was their target all along?
He held his breath as they crossed into a wide square. Tourists bustled everywhere. A red double-decker bus pulled away with a roar. Harry looked up at a statue in the center of the square and felt suddenly small and terribly alone.
He reached inside his coat again, gripping the wand.
If they tried anything—anything at all—he would fight. He would not let them take him without a fight.
But then a voice rang out from the group. "Alright, everyone! Final stop before the coach ride home!"
The teacher was waving from the front. "Stay close! Don't get lost!"
Marcus nudged Harry again. "You gonna snap out of it now, or should we call ghostbusters?"
Harry smiled faintly, the tension pressing against his shoulders like a stone slab.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I'm fine. Really."
But he wasn't. Not even close.
In his mind, he was already planning. When he got home, he would activate the flu network. He would go inside his trunk, maybe even brew one of the basic alert potions he'd read about. He needed a warning system, something, in case these witches found him again.
Because one thing was clear.
They weren't just passing through.
They had come to London for a reason.
And Harry Potter had a sickening feeling that he was that reason.
The warm scent of roasted chicken, steaming peas, and fried potatoes filled the air inside the bustling London restaurant. Laughter and chatter bounced off the walls, and plates clinked softly against tabletops. To anyone watching, it was a normal school lunch outing.
But for Harry Potter, everything was wrong.
He sat frozen in his seat, staring blankly at the table while the food on his plate went untouched. Jason and Mitchell had been laughing just a minute ago—laughing and joking about the Tower of London ghosts. Then, suddenly, they stood up without a word, took their trays, and walked away from the table. Straight toward Dudley.
No one ever voluntarily sat with Dudley.
And what was stranger—Dudley didn't even react. He didn't grunt, insult, or shove. He just kept eating like he didn't even notice two strangers plopping down next to him. And looking around, Harry saw that most of the students were oddly quiet now. Eating mechanically, heads down. No conversations. No expressions.
His heart began to pound.
Then, the door at the far end of the restaurant creaked open.
Click-clack… click-clack…
Two women stepped inside—one tall and red-haired, the other shorter with cropped dark hair. They didn't speak, didn't even glance at the crowd. They moved with purpose, like the world bent around them. And it might have.
Harry watched in horror as they walked straight toward him.
They reached his table.
The taller woman, Wanda Maximoff, slid gracefully into the seat across from him. The younger one, America Chavez, plopped down beside her, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.
"W-what do you want with me?" Harry asked, voice cracking mid-sentence.
His hand slipped under the table, curling tightly around the wand hidden in his lap.
The younger girl answered first. "I'm America. America Chavez. This is Wanda."
"Wanda Maximoff," the red-haired woman said, her voice smooth but distant, as if she were distracted by thoughts far away. "We're not here to hurt you, Harry."
Harry swallowed. "Then what are you here for? Are you here to... kidnap me?"
Wanda blinked. "No."
"She's not," America said firmly. "We're looking for her kids. Or... versions of them. In other universes."
Harry blinked slowly, trying to understand. "I don't have anything to do with your children," he said. "I'm... I'm an only child. And my mum—my mum's dead."
Wanda's expression flickered.
"We know," America said quietly. "But this isn't just about your world. We're from another universe—one where Wanda had twin boys. Billy and Tommy. But in that world, they died. So we've been traveling the multiverse... looking for a version of that family where the children lived but Wanda didn't."
"Trying to find a place where I can belong," Wanda murmured.
Harry stared at her. His thoughts swirled in a cyclone of confusion and curiosity.
"But my mum's name was Lily Evans," Harry said softly.
Wanda's eyes held his. "Names change between worlds. Sometimes even appearances. But across universes, we find echoes. Threads of fate. Magic works differently in every world—but family, love... those things feel the same."
Harry didn't answer immediately. His hands trembled slightly beneath the table.
Was this possible?
Could it really be that the woman sitting across from him—a stranger with magic in her veins and eyes like fire—was another version of his mother?
Or was this just... cruel hope?
"I'm not saying I am your mother," Wanda said, gently. "But I might be. I might have been, in another life. And even if I'm not... I would still take care of you."
"Why?" Harry whispered.
"Because I've lost too much, and I can't turn my back on a child who needs help. And... because when I saw you, I felt something. Something more than magic. A pull. A bond."
Harry stared at her for a long time. "You'd take care of me?"
"Yes."
"Even if I'm not your son?"
"Yes," she said, unwavering.
He looked down at the untouched peas on his plate. "They hate me," he whispered. "My aunt and uncle. They say it's because I'm... unnatural. A freak."
Wanda's fists clenched on the table.
"They lock me in a cupboard sometimes," Harry added, his voice now hollow. "When something unnatural happen in the house."
Silence fell between them.
Then Wanda leaned forward, her voice a soft flame.
"You'll never be treated like that again. Not if you come with me."
America nodded. "You don't have to decide now. But know this—we're not here to trick you or hurt you. We're here to give you something better. A chance."
Harry looked around the room.
All the students were still eating in eerie silence. None of them seemed to notice what was happening.
They were in some kind of spell. A stasis. Or illusion. Or maybe reality had been rewritten, just for this moment.
"I want to go with you," Harry said.
Wanda's eyes widened. America blinked.
"I want to go," Harry repeated. "Even if you're not really my mum... I want to be with someone who actually wants me."
Wanda slowly extended her hand across the table. "Then we'll make a plan. We'll come for you. Properly. Not like this, not rushed or secretive. When the time is right."
Harry hesitated, then placed his hand in hers.
It was warm.
Steady.
For the first time in his life, he felt... protected.
Sunday arrived with a quiet stillness, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Harry had risen early that morning, not out of obligation, but anticipation. Every possession he owned—every wand, book, parchment scroll, and magical item—was already packed neatly inside his enchanted trunk. Not a single thread of Dudley's old, tattered clothes remained inside. The broken toys, the hand-me-down socks, the worn-out shoes—they were left behind, like the memories that no longer held any power over him.
Today, Harry Potter was going to choose his life.
He sat in the Dursleys' cold, silent living room. Sunlight streamed through the dust-frosted windows, casting golden rays on the chipped furniture and floral wallpaper. The television muttered lowly in the background, ignored.
Vernon had gone out early to play golf. Dudley was snoring upstairs.
And Petunia Dursley was bustling in the kitchen, completely unaware that her control over Harry's life was minutes from vanishing.
Then—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang.
Petunia peeked her head out from the kitchen. "Harry! Door!"
Harry didn't move.
She narrowed her eyes. "Did you not hear me, boy?"
He stared at her, then calmly replied, "Open it yourself."
Her lips pursed, trembling with fury. "I'll deal with you after I speak with whoever it is," she snapped, wiping her hands and marching toward the door.
Harry didn't look away.
He wanted to see this.
He needed to.
The lock clicked. The handle turned. The door creaked open.
And Petunia froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Standing on the porch, cloaked in a crimson coat with chestnut-red waves of hair tumbling down her shoulders, stood a woman who looked eerily familiar.
Too familiar.
"L-Lily?" Petunia gasped, staggering back a step.
The woman's lips curled slightly.
"Hello, Petunia," Wanda Maximoff said, her voice calm, but laced with iron. She stepped forward, and with a flick of her hand, the door swung open wide behind her, rattling on its hinges. Wind stirred inside the hallway as if the very air obeyed her.
Then her gaze shifted.
"Hello, Harry."
Harry stood. There was a strange knot in his throat—not fear, but a kind of warmth he hadn't felt in years. Her voice sounded like the pages of his mother's journal come to life.
"You..." Petunia's voice cracked. "You're alive... You're—then why did you—why did you send him here? To me?"
Her voice rose, becoming shrill, panicked.
"You left him on my doorstep like some burden! Like some broken package!"
And then, Wanda raised her hand.
With a whisper of power, a red glow pulsed from her palm. Petunia screamed as a sharp pressure forced her to her knees—eyes wide, clutching her chest.
"You treated him like filth," Wanda hissed. "You let him sleep in a cupboard. You let your pig of a son beat him and starve him. You scolded him for things he didn't do. You hated him for something he never chose. And you thought I wouldn't know?"
"Please—stop—" Petunia gasped, eyes filling with tears.
"You're lucky I'm not the other me," Wanda said, her voice like thunder rumbling in a calm storm. Then she lowered her hand, and the glow vanished.
Petunia fell to the ground, sobbing softly.
"I'm taking him with me. He will never live under this roof again."
Harry stepped forward without hesitation. His hand reached for Wanda's, and she took it without a word. They turned.
Standing at the foot of the Dursleys' driveway was America Chavez, arms crossed, chewing her gum like this was the most boring rescue she'd ever been part of.
"Everything good?" America asked, already summoning the spell.
Wanda nodded once. "He's coming."
America twisted her fingers through the air.
A golden ripple cut open the air behind her, forming a glowing five-pointed star that shimmered like stardust. The portal pulsed softly, revealing a world far more vibrant and warm than Privet Drive could ever be.
Harry looked back only once.
Petunia was still on the floor, hugging herself, eyes wide with disbelief. She would never understand what just happened. She would never understand how much she had lost—what she could've had, if she'd only shown an ounce of love.
But that wasn't Harry's burden anymore.
He turned away.
Together, hand in hand with Wanda, he walked into the star-shaped portal.
And the door to Privet Drive slammed shut behind them—for the last time.
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