The last thing he remembered was the cold.
There was a sharp, numbing bite in the air, a patch of black ice on the stone step, and then weightlessness. A flash of pain. Darkness. Silence.
And then—light.
It wasn't the brilliant tunnel-to-the-afterlife kind of light he'd half-expected. It was the dusty glow of morning sunlight seeping through a crooked slat in a wooden door. The air smelled faintly of mothballs, old wood, and laundry detergent.
He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting.
He was lying on something lumpy. A thin mattress over what felt like wood. The ceiling above him was slanted, with pipes running along it. A cupboard?
He sat up too fast. His head swam. Everything felt... off. His limbs were too short, his hands too small, his balance wrong.
He scrambled to his feet—or tried to. Instead, he bonked his head on the low ceiling with a startled "Oof!"
"Hallie! Get up!" a sharp voice snapped from above. "Breakfast won't make itself!"
The name echoed strangely in his ears.
Hallie?
He turned to the mirror fragment leaning against the wall. It was warped and dusty, but it was enough. A girl looked back at him.
Small. Freckled. With a mop of unruly red hair that curled at the edges. Big green eyes stared wide with disbelief—his mother's eyes. Her face, but softer, younger. His own—hers?—nose wrinkled in confusion. She was... cute. Undeniably cute.
"Oh. Hell."
That voice—it was higher, lighter. His voice, now hers.
He stumbled backward and hit the door, which rattled but didn't open. A cupboard under the stairs. It was all absurdly familiar.
And then it hit him like a wave.
He was in the Harry Potter universe.
Only, he wasn't Harry.
He was Hallie Potter.
The next few hours were a blur of half-panic, half-disbelief. Petunia Dursley, thinner and sharper-faced than the movies had portrayed, scowled and barked at him with a distaste that bordered on theatrical. Vernon was pompous and red-faced, and Dudley was already a miniature tyrant.
But none of it mattered.
Because James and Lily Potter were alive.
He overheard it at dinner—Petunia fuming about "that freak sister of mine and her good-for-nothing husband, always writing letters like Hallie is a bloody princess." And he—Hallie—remembered a letter tucked into the pile of old toys in the cupboard. One written in a neat, flowing script.
My dearest Hallie, I hope the Dursleys are treating you well. Daddy and I miss you more than words can say. Only one more month until you come home for good! All our love,
Mum
He read it three times, his hands shaking. His heart ached with something fierce and unfamiliar. A mother. His mother.
This world—this timeline—was different. Safer. War-free. Peaceful.
It was also starting to feel... real.
By the time the Hogwarts letter arrived—delivered not by Hagrid but by a snowy owl who seemed personally offended by the Dursleys—Hallie had settled into her new skin with strange ease. Clothes fit differently. Emotions bubbled closer to the surface. And when she laughed, it was lighter, freer.
But most curious of all was the effect she had on people.
She'd noticed it when the grocer gave her candy "on the house" with a wink. When the mailman called her "sunshine" and ruffled her hair. When Dudley, mid-taunt, tripped over his words and blushed furiously when she smiled at him.
People adored her. Instinctively. Effortlessly.
There was something disarming, something enchanted in her presence. Like a quiet magic. A charm.
She didn't quite understand it yet, but she wasn't complaining.
After all, she'd landed in a fantasy. A second chance at life, in a world of magic, with loving parents waiting and a body that, while unfamiliar, was growing more comfortable by the day.
The adventure wasn't saving the world this time.
It was discovering it.
And herself.
The letter came with a rustle of feathers and a sharp peck at the window. Hallie—still getting used to the name, though it was starting to feel natural—opened it with trembling hands. She had been waiting, not with fear, but with quiet excitement.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall
Dear Miss Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
The words blurred slightly as her eyes prickled. Not from sadness—but wonder.
She wasn't just in this world. She belonged to it.
The Dursleys wanted none of it, of course. Petunia's face turned a blotchy purple when she saw the owl, and Vernon grumbled about "abnormality" and "corrupting the girl" before stomping off to call someone about it.
But within the hour, another owl arrived—this one sleek, black, and carrying a scroll sealed with gold wax. A Portkey Authorization. Magical transport arranged directly by Lily Potter.
With one glowing touch of the enchanted parchment, the musty Dursley home vanished in a whirl of light and wind.
She landed in a sunny, flower-filled courtyard and was immediately engulfed in a soft blur of arms, hair, and the unmistakable smell of peppermint and parchment.
"Hallie!" Lily Potter's voice was warm honey. "Oh, you're even more beautiful than I remembered."
Hallie stood frozen, stunned, as her mother—her actual mother—cupped her cheeks and kissed her forehead.
James appeared next, laughing as he swept her up into a spinning hug. "You've got your mum's eyes, and my troublemaking grin. Merlin help Hogwarts."
They hadn't seen her in nearly a year, apparently. For "her own protection," Hallie had been sent to stay with the Dursleys until she came of age to handle her magical inheritance. A political agreement, one she didn't remember making—but then again, she hadn't.
Still, in this moment, she didn't question it.
She was with her parents.
She was home.
The next day, they took her to Diagon Alley.
It was even more alive than the books or films had ever shown. Street performers floated cards through the air with sleight-of-hand magic. Children chased enchanted bubbles that sang lullabies when they popped. A group of goblins argued outside Gringotts in a language that shimmered in the air.
People turned when they saw her—some with double takes, others with warm greetings. One elderly witch bowed.
"Miss Potter. You're even more radiant than the Prophet said."
Hallie blinked. "The what said?"
James snorted. "Daily Prophet's been running fluff pieces on you ever since you turned ten. 'The Phoenix Child.' Bit dramatic, but they love a Potter."
And then, Ollivanders.
Inside the narrow wand shop, Mr. Ollivander emerged from the shadows with the air of someone who'd been expecting her for years.
He didn't speak at first. He simply stared.
"You have... a rare spark, Miss Potter," he murmured. "Your magic sings before it even speaks."
Wand after wand fizzled in her grip, until finally—a slim piece of polished rowan wood with a unicorn hair core. The moment her fingers closed around it, a soft breeze swept through the shop, and golden light shimmered from the tip.
Ollivander smiled faintly. "Ah. A wand of protection, charm, and hidden strength. A perfect match."
Hallie stared at the wand, then at her reflection in a brass panel on the counter.
For the first time, she smiled without hesitation.
She wasn't pretending.
She was Hallie.
That night, curled on a soft bed in a sun-drenched bedroom at the Potter family's countryside home, she lay staring at the ceiling. Her wand rested beside her, warm even now.
This world was kind. Magical. Soft in all the places the last one had been hard.
But it wasn't just the magic around her.
It was the magic within her.
Hallie Potter. Girl. Witch. Charmer. Daughter.