What a Correct Harry Potter World!
Grandpa once said: "Life is like a box of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans. You never know what you're going to get."
Young Owen never took that seriously.
Beans? How strange could they possibly taste?
Until one day, he bit into a Bean flavored like stinky feet.
From that moment on, Owen refused all snacks sold at Zonko's Joke Shop.
But the "Beans of Life" Owen tasted were indeed different from most people's.
For example, right after he first transmigrated into the Harry Potter world, he began having nightmares every single night.
He dreamed he had transmigrated into a very "corrected" magical world.
First, in that dream world, he had no gender—he could only vaguely guess from his own voice that he was probably male.
Second, he met Harry on the Hogwarts Express…
A Harry Potter who was Latino, complete with lightning-bolt scar and enthusiastic energy.
Hermione, meanwhile, was an African-American girl with a flawless "academic optimization system."
Out of the trio, only Ron looked somewhat normal.
Except—his hair grew down to his waist, he spoke in a soft voice, and followed Latino Harry around just like Ginny.
Normal?
Normal, my foot!
Owen, realizing he might have fallen into some bizarre alternate universe Harry Potter world, felt completely hopeless.
After all, his only advantage was his knowledge of the original story—but who knew whether anything in that "corrected" world still followed canon?
So Owen decided he would cling to his professors, avoid unnecessary trouble, and—most importantly—stay far away from the main trio.
Good good study, day day up, as the Muggle saying went.
There weren't many days left until his OWL exams.
A little over 1,300.
Subtract sleep, meals, holidays, emotional damage, possible explosions, and mandatory school chaos…
He really only had maybe 400 days to study!
Four. Hundred. Days.
Rounded up, that meant tomorrow!
Feeling the urgency?
Then get to work! (Humorous.)
---
But when Owen actually stepped through the gates of Hogwarts, the world before him crushed his last hopes that this life would be normal.
Since when did Hogwarts allow students to choose their own dormitories?
And that wasn't even the strangest part—witches and wizards walked by in an explosion of colors:
shades of skin from pale to red; appearances ranging from ancient deities to elves; identities from vampires to possible Veela.
Gender wasn't even labeled by gender. Instead, people were classified using letters from A to Ω.
The enormous Hogwarts Castle looked less like a school and more like a humanoid creature museum.
This was absolutely unacceptable for the mortal Owen.
So, without hesitation, he begged the Sorting Hat to send him to Slytherin—because Slytherin, of all places, was still the house filled with "discrimination" and "prejudice."
Their ancestors had followed William the Conqueror.
They were pure old Londoners whose family tapestries practically waved the Union Jack.
If you dared wander somewhere you shouldn't, Snape would tear you apart.
Absolutely perfect!
And so, Owen found his peaceful corner.
Unfortunately, in such a "correct" world, even if the tree wished to remain still, the wind refused to stop.
No matter how he tried to avoid trouble, he was eventually dragged into the righteous war that swept across Britain and much of Europe's wizarding world.
Using his foreknowledge, Owen strengthened Slytherin's influence and formed the Anti-Correction Alliance—also known as the Death Eaters.
They swept across Britain and parts of Europe, once powerful enough to change magical politics with a single decree.
But slowly, defeat after defeat piled up.
Eventually, they were crushed by the "despicable transgender organization" known as the Order of the Phoenix.
The mighty Dark Lord was defeated by Latino Harry Potter, and Owen heroically fell in the Battle of Hogwarts, giving his life for his oh-so-incorrect beliefs.
Then he woke up.
The dream was over.
Or… had he transmigrated again?
Owen wasn't sure.
Even after he begged his grandfather to take him to Little Whinging to confirm Harry's appearance, he still developed mild PTSD upon discovering that Harry was, in fact, not Latino.
The dream had simply been too vivid.
It felt like he had lived a full lifetime there.
The spells in his memory remained crystal clear, as if he could cast them with a flick of his wrist—
—which he did, successfully, using his grandfather's wand.
When Owen was eight, his grandfather had contracted dragon pox, an illness similar to chickenpox but far more dangerous. Highly contagious. Potentially fatal.
Because of quarantine restrictions, Owen never got to see him one last time.
Only a cold letter from St. Mungo's announced the quiet passing of the old man—the last family member Owen had.
Upon hearing the news, Owen did only one thing:
He grabbed a shovel and ran to his grandfather Rick's burial site in the middle of the night, digging up the coffin.
His grandfather? Dead?
Impossible!
Did they not know his surname—Sanchez?
Rick Sanchez wouldn't die.
He'd simply gone on an inter-dimensional adventure.
Probably with some kid named Morty.
And when Owen found the coffin empty, he believed it completely.
Too bad there was no portal gun inside. Otherwise, this would no longer be just a Harry Potter story—it would be an entire multiverse.
But reality remained:
The white-haired old man, always wearing a black trench coat like a proper English gentleman, had disappeared from Owen's world.
Three years passed.
Now eleven, Owen stood at the beginning of a new chapter.
It was August 1991, a Tuesday.
Heavy rain had drenched the British Isles for a week straight.
Cold northern winds clashed with warm Atlantic air, chilling even London to the bone.
The streets were emptier than usual.
Dragging his luggage, Owen left his suburban manor and arrived at King's Cross Station after an hour-long taxi ride.
The station was unusually crowded—witches and wizards in cloaks slipped between Muggles like colorful birds.
Following them, Owen easily found Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
"Oh! Don't worry, dear," a robust red-haired woman suddenly said.
"Just walk straight toward the barrier. Don't stop. If you're nervous, run a little. Come along—Ron, you follow right after him."
"Okay!" responded a thin boy beside her, pale and clearly underfed.
He stared nervously at the barrier.
Harry Potter!
Heavens!
Such a pale, scrawny Harry Potter!
After so many nights of terrorizing dreams, Owen felt strangely unprepared to face the real one.
And Ron—short hair, hand-me-down clothes, no dramatic lace, none of the exaggerated flair from the dream.
Completely different from the dream-Ron who followed Harry around yelling "Gei!"
A new book begins.