We've all read this story. A little boy with a lightning scar and uncaring relatives. The spitting image of his father, with the eyes of his mother. Five trinkets, a deadly reptile, and our hero. a goblin blade, and three friends who took on the greatest evil, and earned their happy ending.
Or, someone decides to mix it up, throw in a ROB, a dash of humor, and ends up with a SI waking up in the cupboard just as owl's make their delivery and change the little orphan's life for the better. They fix everything. The love interest's psychological trauma is averted. The rat is caught. The godfather is pardoned. The spare is saved. The statues never come to life. I wish life was that simple.
I woke up, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, and got out of bed. The first thing that indicated something was amiss was when I opened my eyes and noticed that I wasn't blind without the pair of glasses that had followed me since my days as a teenager. The ever longing craving for nicotine was nonexistent. The second thing I noticed was that my surrounding were not that of my bedroom. This was a shabby little ten by ten room with a shabbier wardrobe and threadbare sheets. I hurriedly dressed, finding ill fitting and ill mended clothes in the wardrobe.
I looked around the room. There were a collection of shells on the window. A picture of the coast. It was brick, and old. Where was I?
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.
I turned, and a matronly old woman opened my door.
"Tom, there's a visitor here for you." That wasn't my name.
An old man entered the room, he was dressed in a suit, and had a rediculous scarf around his neck.
"Hello Tom, my name is Albus Dumbledore, it's a pleasure to meet you." He said, his eyes twinkling, and extended a hand.
Suddenly, I knew where I was at, and who I was, and boy, was I fucked.