Harry stood at the threshold of the Dursley home, tongue-tied and wide-eyed. After all, his intense suicide attempt could have a background score from Hans Zimmer. This strange, black-haired kid, who was nearly a foot taller, was inviting him to an unknown club while sporting a knowing smile.
Harry finally croaked, "The Nexus Club? Uh.. Well… If there's a joining fee, I can't afford it… Uncle Vernon doesn't give me pocket money."
I sighed. My unrehearsed entry into his life didn't turn out as dramatic as I expected.
Neighbors were beginning to murmur from the fences, attracted like flies to the arrival of a stranger. Indeed, by appearance, I didn't look like I belonged in the town, or even in the country.
I shoved Harry inside the house and followed him. He was too dazed to resist my domination.
I was full of excitement to be inside one of Harry Potter's iconic locations. The Dursleys' home. It smelled like overcooked bacon, and there was a lingering, strong cologne that men often wear in sweaters. It must be Vernon's.
Harry trailed behind me and quickly dumped the noose in the nearest garbage can. He was obviously wary of me. His eyes darted to the corners of the cramped hallway, as if expecting the walls to close in or his relatives to burst from the shadows. It must all be a dirty prank. The idea of belonging to a club, or even the possibility of him having friends, had always seemed impossible.
I settled on the comfy couch in the living room and tilted my head back. It groaned under my weight as I took in Petunia's designer sense—chintz curtains and doilies. The Dursleys' home was a shrine to their stagnation.
The information dump in my skull had rerouted time just enough. The Dursleys, apparently, were out, delayed by some mundane errand. Let's say, a traffic jam on the M25 or a sale at Smethwick's Hardware.
"Sit down, Harry," I murmured gently, patting the cushion beside me. "We've got a lot to unpack, and not much time before the world decides to complicate things."
The boy nodded numbly and took a seat beside me. "Listen to me, Harry," I began like a storyteller easing into a tale that was too wild even for my imagination. "What do you think your life was really about? Did it make sense to you?"
"I dunno," he replied, his gaze burning a hole in the carpets. "I reckoned I was a loser destined to get nowhere in life. The beatings, the cupboard stays, my parents dying, my mental illness, and hallucinations. I thought I deserved it all. I was going to—"
"End your life?" I interrupted him. "No, you weren't, silly boy. You'd have given up at the last second. Even if you had hung yourself, magic would've rescued you subconsciously."
"Magic?" Harry asked, looking up at my face finally. "What are you talking about?"
I smiled warmly at him. "Your parents dying of a car crash, your blood being corrupted, and you being mentally ill were all lies. The truth was the hallucinations."
"What do you mean? I don't understand…"
"Your parents did not die in a car crash, Harry. They were murdered by the most powerful dark lord of the age, Lord Voldemort. And you, being their child, must carry on their vision and legacy."
Harry shook his head as if my words made little sense. "Volde–what? Don't say that word."
The boy's scar gleamed dully for a second. His hand went to his forehead, and he cried out in mortal pain. "Ahhh! My head. I should take my pills or I'll have hallucinations again!"
As Harry tried to get up, I grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to sit. "All those lies were a cage, Harry. It is time for you to know what you are."
"Who am I? What am I?"
"You are Harry Potter, the boy who lived. And you are a wizard."
The word hung in the air unclaimed. Harry's lips parted for a second, but no sound came out. He furrowed his brows, then shook his head, slowly at first, then sharply, his messy black hair flopping like a raven's wings.
"A wizard, you said? Like in the fantasy stories? Like Merlin? Magic tricks and wands? You're mental, or worse, a salesman. Oh, please… If you're here to sell something, be honest… I don't have any money!"
I could see the walls of denial rebuilding themselves around Harry, brick by painful brick. It would have been easier for the regular boy to accept the truth. However, my version of the boy who lived had been broken and twisted by Vernon's fists and Petunia's canes.
Anyway, I wasn't there to shatter his walls with brute force. Sometimes, truth demanded a spark. "Fair enough," I said, leaning back on my heels with a conspiratorial grin.
"You can be a Doubting Thomas, okay? We'll skip the lecture and go straight to the show-and-tell."
I glanced around the room, spotting the chipped teapot on the side table. It was Petunia's pride, a relic from some long-forgotten wedding gift. Dudley had worn it out while playing and blamed it on Harry, bringing corporal punishment on him.
"That pot there. It's an ugly thing, isn't it? Let's pretend it's your worst enemy. Now, without touching it, without moving a muscle, make it dance. Just will it to happen, okay? Feel the anger, the want, tap into your suffering, and let it bubble up like steam."
Harry's brow furrowed, and he tried to follow my directions, but no magic manifested. His skinny shoulders hunched, trying to make the impossible happen. "I can't—I'm sorry—I just can't—"
Even as he stammered, something in the room shifted, like static before a storm. The teapot trembled. Once. Twice. Then, with a clatter that rattled the saucers, it lifted in the air, wobbling but still hovering three inches above the table before coming crashing back down. It shattered into pieces on the kitchen island.
Harry gasped, scrambling back until his spine hit the sofa arm. "What—how did I—? Aunt Petunia will kill me—"
His hands flew to his mouth before he could finish his own sentence.
"Was that proof enough?" I asked softly, picking up the pieces and depositing them in the bin gracefully. "You did this magic accidentally, Harry. It's been happening your whole life, hasn't it? Those little glitches and weird incidents that the Dursleys beat out to forget."
I leaned towards him for emphasis. "The glass shattering when Dudley stole your last biscuit. The hair growing back overnight after Petunia snipped it too short. Tell me… Am I making sense? Or do I still seem like a salesman?"
Harry swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like in stormy seas. "The... The time on the school roof. I swear I floated up there, chasing that ball. And once Dudley pushed me into the fountain, and I still did not get wet. Uncle Vernon said I was lying and hit me till I blacked out. But it all makes sense to me now!"
Tears welled in his eyes, but these differed from those he got while being tortured. These tears were cathartic and liberating. He wiped them with the back of his hand, leaving behind a streak of grime.
"If magic is real and I'm a wizard... Then why did they hide it from me? Especially about my parents? I need to know everything!"
"Shh," I soothed him, placing a hand on his knee. "The why and what and who are long stories, full of wars and prophecies and a noseless git who marked you as his equal before you could even hold a spoon."
"But soon, like any day now, you'll get a letter, that too by Owl post, if you can believe it. You'll be invited to study at the most prestigious school in the wizarding world—Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But I don't want to spoil everything for you already…"
Harry's breathing steadied, and the storm in his eyes calmed. The dark marks on his face from depression had already begun to recover. Harry Potter was looking like himself again.
"Okay," he said, talking fast. "I believe everything you said. Who are YOU, then? Are you a wizard, too? And tell me more about that club—Nexus, was it?"
I chuckled and got up from the couch, finally perching on the coffee table's edge. "I'm Kaiser Ken—just Ken to friends, or Kaiser. It doesn't matter."
"Think of me as a fixer or plumber. Oh, wait, an architect! I'm a dreamer who got too invested in your story and decided to rewrite the boring bits."
Harry gave me a puzzled expression. He was a kid, after all, and high-handed, vague announcements were difficult for him to digest at his age.
"Enough about me. Let me tell you about the Nexus Club. Well… It's not a club in the polo-shirt-and-potluck sense. Neither are we going to read manga and watch anime together."
"The Nexus Club is a fellowship. We are a band of misfits who have lived their own hells, fighting to tip the scales against the darkness. And you're one of us. In fact, you're the final piece, Harry."
"None of what you're saying makes sense to me, mister Ken," the boy said, biting his lip. "Can you explain a bit more—"
Before he could press me further, the front door rattled. At first, Harry thought it was the Dursleys, and fear occupied his heart again for a fleeting second.
I put a reassuring hand on his head. "Right on cue," I murmured. "The gang's all here."