The Burrow was quiet at last.
The soft creak of wood settling in the late summer night, the occasional rattle of a loose windowpane when the wind sighed against the crooked walls, and the faint hum of insects beyond the wards — all of it blended into a kind of drowsy stillness. Upstairs, the Weasleys' bedroom was unusually occupied tonight; Molly and Arthur had ceded it to the unconscious boy they'd brought home, tucking him into clean sheets despite the soot and dried blood streaking his forehead.
Downstairs, the couple had made do with a transfigured mess of couches and chairs that looked like a bed only if you squinted and had a very forgiving imagination. Neither complained. Not after tonight.
After ensuring Harry's comfort, Molly collapsed into Arthur's side with a sigh, muttering something about how tomorrow would bring endless questions — from their children, from the boy himself, and likely from Dumbledore too. Arthur murmured agreement, already half-asleep, his hand resting protectively over Molly's wrist.
The house, chaotic as it was, settled into a fragile, tired peace.
Harry did not.
---
At first, his dream was quiet — the kind of soft nothingness that usually comes with exhaustion so deep the body forgets how to wake. But tonight, exhaustion gave way to something else entirely.
Before he'd blacked out from the explosion, Harry remembered being certain — certain that something had rushed through him into the umbrella Hagrid had thrust into his hands. It had been… something. Magic, maybe? Something from the artifact? Whatever it was, it had answered him when he'd wanted — really wanted — to blow those bloody monsters into pieces.
And blow them he did.
The memory still made him twitch in his sleep: the burst of raw energy, the violent shockwave, the sensation of being weightless before darkness claimed him.
Now, though, there was no shockwave. No Hagrid. No monsters.
Just a strange little house at the end of an unfamiliar street.
Harry blinked groggily behind his smudged glasses. The edges of his vision blurred like heat shimmer, the rest of the world swimming lazily out of focus. He rubbed his eyes, blinked again, and stared at the house in front of him.
Neat little lawn. Trimmed hedges. White paving stones leading up to a freshly painted front door.
"Right," he muttered under his breath. "Definitely dreaming."
He sighed anyway and shuffled forward, ringing the bell.
Ding-dong.
Nothing.
He waited, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. After years with the Dursleys, he knew a "well-maintained property" when he saw one, and this house practically screamed we care about appearances. The silence, though, stretched long enough to become unsettling.
Harry hesitated, then — because dreams make idiots of everyone — tried the handle. The door swung open.
"Yeah, brilliant security there," he mumbled. "What's next, a welcome mat that says 'come burgle us'?"
Inside, the hallway was narrow, the walls a pale beige that could have been ripped straight out of Privet Drive. A set of stairs led up, two doors branched off to the sides, and there was even a little alcove under the staircase — though no cupboard, thank Merlin. He wandered down the passage, poked his head into what looked like a dining room, and frowned.
Something about it was… familiar. Not familiar like he'd been there before — more like he knew the plumbing somehow. Which was ridiculous. The only time he'd ever cared about pipes was when Dudley's gang had tried to shove his head down a toilet at school. (He'd escaped by distracting them with an elaborate story about the headmaster's missing toupee. Long story. Unimportant.)
Shaking the memory away, he stepped back into the hall and tried the second door. It wouldn't budge.
He jiggled the handle. Pulled harder. Nothing.
Harry sighed, knocked once, then paused. Wait… why am I knocking? This wasn't his house. He shouldn't even be here. Dream or not, breaking into strange houses and announcing your presence to the occupants seemed… unwise.
But his knuckles rapped against the door again anyway.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Silence.
Then —
"For goodness' sake, come in, will you? You've been dithering out there forever!"
The voice was old, creaky, and somehow scolding and impatient at once.
Harry swallowed, heart suddenly hammering despite the ridiculousness of the situation, and turned the handle.
Inside was a cosy little sitting room that smelled faintly of old books and lavender polish. An ancient woman sat perched on a cushioned chair, hair in curlers, wire-rimmed spectacles halfway down her nose, and a paperback in her lap — a paperback whose cover showed a bespectacled boy on a broomstick.
Harry blinked.
She circled something on the page, muttering to herself, before setting the book aside and peering at him.
"You're still standing? Sit, boy," she said briskly, gesturing to the couch opposite.
Harry sat. Mostly because she gave off the kind of authority that made arguing seem suicidal.
He shifted uneasily under her gaze. There was something uncomfortably familiar about the way she looked at him.
"So?" she said suddenly. "How's it been so far? Do you like your new life?"
Harry blinked. "Er… you mean… finding out I'm a wizard?"
"No!" she snapped, waving the idea away as though it were a mosquito. "Not that. I mean in this world. As Harry Potter, of course."
He stared at her.
Right. Definitely dreaming. Definitely… weird.
"Do I… know you?" he asked hesitantly.
She leaned forward, pointing a pen at his face. "You don't remember me, do you?"
"No, ma'am. Pretty sure this is our first meeting."
"Oh, is it?" she said, arching a brow. "Try harder. What's my name?"
Her pen crept uncomfortably close to his nose. He blurted, "Mrs. Wyrd, I don't—"
She grinned like a cat with cream. "Ha! You just said my name."
"I—what?"
And then the world fractured.
Images slammed into his mind, rapid-fire: fragments of another life, another name, another death. Voices shouted over one another, memories tangled like fraying threads until he couldn't tell which belonged to Harry and which belonged to… him.
---
When he came back to himself, he was sprawled on the couch, panting, skin damp with sweat.
"You bastards," he croaked hoarsely, glaring up at Wyrd. "You bloody killed me."
Wyrd only sniffed. "Bah. Ungrateful brat. Here I thought you'd be happier to be reborn."
"Reborn?!" He sat up, hair sticking in sweaty tufts. "You killed me and expected me to say thanks?"
"Would you rather be dead?" she countered dryly, sipping tea she hadn't had a moment ago. "Do you have any idea where you are? Most souls would kill for a chance like this."
"Oh, sure, right, yeah. Lucky me. Murdered and shoved into a magical orphan's body. Top marks all round."
Their argument spiralled from there. There was swearing. There were accusations. At one point, Wyrd accused him of wasting his "computer privileges" in his last life on "romance trash and poorly written smut" instead of reading the Harry Potter books like a "sensible transmigrant."
It was cathartic. Sort of.
Eventually, they both ran out of steam.
"You want tea?" she asked, eyeing him over her cup.
"Heck no. Don't wanna drink that and wake up as bloody Naruto next."
"Humph," she sniffed, refilling her cup anyway.
After a moment, Harry cleared his throat. "So… perks? Do I get any?"
She smirked. "Didn't you just say wizardry was enough?"
"That was before I remembered there's probably a war coming and I'm the sodding protagonist. I need perks."
"Nope."
"Rare bloodline?"
"Nope."
"Pocket dimension?"
"Nope."
"Gacha?"
"Nope."
"Daily rewards?"
"Nope."
He gawked at her, betrayed. "Then what's the bloody point?!"
Her smirk softened into something almost — almost — kind. "Boy, you have something in you. Always have, always will. Find it, or don't. That's up to you. But I can't interfere after this."
The words settled heavily between them.
Finally, Harry stood.
"Well. Guess that's that, then."
"Chuan rồi," she murmured absently, sipping her tea.
He ignored the foreign phrase and walked to the door. "How do I wake up?"
"You'll wake. Don't fret."
"So this is in my head, then?"
Wyrd's lips curled into a sly smile. "Of course it's in your head, Harry. But why on earth should that mean it isn't real?"
He snorted, turned on his heel, and strode out.
---
Behind him, Wyrd sighed into her cup.
"Ruined the scene, that one," she muttered. "Bloody brat." There was a pause and she said, "Didn't want to meet him, did you?"
From the empty space beside her, a voice murmured softly, "Wouldn't do him any good, seeing the one who killed him. Even if you made it happen. It's better he doesn't see me again until it's time. I'll bear his anger."
There was a pause. Then, quieter still:
"Besides, who knows fear and pain, and loneliness… better than Death itself?"