Chapter 1

I own nothing. All characters and places belong to their respective companies of Warner bros entertainment, J.K. Rowling, and Nintendo.

Vernon Dursley stomped through the icy streets of Little Whinging, his breath puffing in visible clouds as he fumed with indignation. The humiliation at work earlier that day still burned in his chest like a hot coal. He had been passed over for a promotion at Grunnings, and in his mind, there was only one possible culprit to blame: his freakish nephew. Everything wrong in his life, every misfortune, every minor inconvenience—it was always Harry's fault.

The boy had been cleaning the kitchen when Vernon had stormed into the house that evening, his anger spilling over like boiling water. Without a word, he had grabbed the child, dragging him into the sitting room and unleashing his fury. Blows rained down with a savage ferocity, each one punctuated by guttural grunts of rage. By the time Harry collapsed into unconsciousness, bloodied and broken, Vernon stood over him, panting from the exertion but feeling no remorse.

Petunia, who had watched the scene unfold in stunned silence, finally found her voice when the boy lay limp on the floor. "Vernon," she hissed, her voice trembling more with fear than concern, "we can't keep him here. What if the neighbors find out? What if they think we're… monsters?"

Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication. The truth was, they didn't fear judgment for the boy's injuries—they feared discovery. The neighbors would never understand, Petunia rationalized. They wouldn't grasp the lengths to which she and Vernon had gone to suppress Harry's unnaturalness, to rid him of his freakishness.

Vernon had grumbled at first, reluctant to be saddled with more work, but eventually conceded. Which was how he now found himself trudging through the biting December cold with a garbage bag slung over his shoulder. Inside was Harry Potter, unconscious and barely clinging to life.

Vernon's breath quickened as he approached his destination: an open sewer grate left unattended on a poorly lit street. The night was mercifully quiet, the cold having driven the residents of Privet Drive indoors. Even better, the streetlamp above the grate was out, shrouding the area in darkness. A grim smile twisted Vernon's face as he reached the edge of the hole, his hands gripping the bag tightly.

He hoisted the bag over the opening, his body heaving with the effort. For a moment, he stared into the darkness below, savoring the finality of what he was about to do. "Good riddance, freak," he muttered, his voice thick with malice.

And with that, he released his grip. The bag tumbled into the abyss, its faint rustling soon swallowed by silence.

Vernon straightened his back, dusting his hands as though completing an unpleasant chore. He turned on his heel and began the walk home, his mind already conjuring a vision of the life ahead—free from the boy who had, in his view, brought nothing but misfortune. He felt no guilt, no hesitation. In his mind, he had done what was necessary.

As he disappeared into the frosty night, the sewer grate remained open, its dark maw bearing silent witness to the vile act committed above.

Harry's fragile body hit the frigid, putrid water of the sewer with a jarring splash, the impact sending shockwaves of pain through his already broken frame. The air inside the garbage bag was suffocating, the stench of raw sewage mixing with the coppery tang of his own blood. He tried to cry out, to plead for help, but his voice failed him. He could barely move, his small limbs weak and unresponsive. The icy water seeped into the bag, weighing it down and filling the space around him with a chilling dread.

"Please… someone… help," he thought desperately, his mind spiraling toward unconsciousness. Each breath came slower, shallower, until even his thoughts began to slip away.

He didn't notice the faint glow emanating from deeper within the sewer, an eerie green light pulsing softly in the darkness. Hidden within the labyrinthine tunnels, a Warp Pipe shimmered to life, its magic reaching out as if in response to the boy's plight. The current tugged at the bag, pulling it closer, drawing him toward the pipe's otherworldly energy.

As Harry slipped into the void of unconsciousness, the glow intensified, casting strange shadows on the grimy walls of the sewer. The pipe's pull grew stronger, inexorable, as though fate itself refused to let him perish in such a cruel and forgotten place.

Elsewhere, in the world of the mushroom kingdom, Bowser, the Koopa King, growled under his breath as his clown car floated steadily toward his fortress. Yet another plan had crumbled, quite literally, into ruin. His latest attempt to capture Princess Peach and secure her as both his queen and the mother of his children had ended in failure. As always, Mario had appeared at just the right (or wrong, depending on your perspective) moment, disrupting everything. The Princess was free, Bowser's carefully constructed schemes lay in tatters, and the heroic plumber had once again stolen the spotlight.

Still, Bowser's determination burned as fiercely as the lava pits surrounding his lair. Failure was nothing more than a stepping stone, a minor setback on his inevitable path to success. One day, Princess Peach would stand by his side, Mario would hang up his overalls in defeat, and Bowser's dreams of a united family would be realized. All he needed now was to recalibrate, rethink, and come up with a plan so brilliant, even Mario wouldn't see it coming.

He drummed his claws against the controls of his clown car, a begrudging grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Despite the sting of his latest defeat, there were some things to look forward to. The upcoming Kart Racing Tournament, for instance, was always a prime opportunity for him to showcase his superior driving skills. More often than not, victory was his, and he relished the chance to gloat over his competitors—especially Mario.

Then there was the Mushroom Kingdom Games. Bowser's grin widened into a toothy smirk as he thought of the chaos he often brought to those events. Crashing their meticulously planned festivities, adding his own fiery challenges, and dangling tantalizing options like stealing opponents' coins and stars—it was a guilty pleasure of his. The Games might have been meant to unite the kingdoms in friendly competition, but Bowser had no qualms about bending the rules to his advantage. Though it wasn't as if they complained either. They all had fun when he mixed things up.

"Maybe I'll up the ante this year," he muttered to himself. "Throw in a few lava pits, some Thwomps... spice things up a bit." He chuckled at the thought.

As he flew through a winding ravine he often used as a shortcut to his kingdom, a sudden sound broke through his musings. The unmistakable woosh of a Warp Pipe activating echoed through the canyon, making him pause. His sharp eyes darted upward, scanning the rocky walls for the source.

Warp Pipes didn't activate on their own. It took intent—someone consciously willing the connection. Bowser's brow furrowed. "Who could that be?" he rumbled, narrowing his eyes. He slowed the clown car and angled it toward the sound, curiosity overriding his caution.

Above him, a shimmering green pipe materialized, and something small and waterlogged shot out of it, plummeting downward.

"What in the—?" Bowser's words caught in his throat as he realized whatever had come through the pipe was falling straight toward the river and sharp rocks below. His heart skipped a beat. "No way I'm letting that happen on my watch!"

Without thinking, Bowser slammed the throttle. The clown car shot downward, its propeller blades buzzing against the frothing water of the river as he stretched his massive arms outward. The object—no, a bag, he realized—landed heavily in his grasp just as he pulled the car back up to safety. The cold water splashed at his scales, but Bowser barely noticed, too busy holding the bag close to his chest as he pulled up.

As he leveled out, he exhaled sharply. "That was too close," he muttered, glancing down at the soaking wet bag. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Now, who in their right mind sends a bag through a Warp Pipe? And why aim for one above a ravine?"

He then caught a whiff of the back and nearly retched at the smell rolling off of the bag. "Eurgh… And why does it smell like someone's failed taco night!?"

Carefully, he set the bag down in the car, prying the top open with his claws doing his best to avoid the more disgusting portions of the bag. His curiosity burned almost as fiercely as the lava beneath his castle. "Alright, mystery bag. Let's see what you've got."

Bowser managed to finally get it open and froze. What he saw made his blood run cold.

A small, frail figure lay curled up in the bag, his tiny body covered in grime and bruises. The boy couldn't have been older than four, and his tattered clothes clung to him like a second skin. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, and a vivid lightning-shaped scar marred his forehead. Bowser's sharp eyes caught the tremor of the boy's small frame, shivering even in the bright warmth of the sunny day in the ravine.

"What... the hell?" Bowser's voice was barely a whisper, his usual booming tone gone. His claws hovered over the boy, unsure of what to do. "Who would—why would anyone—?"

The smell of sewage and the sight of the child's injuries made his stomach churn, but something deeper twisted inside him. This wasn't the kind of calculated malice he was used to in his own schemes. This was raw cruelty, the kind that made even a villain like him recoil.

The boy stirred weakly, a soft whimper escaping his cracked lips. Bowser's heart clenched as he leaned closer. "Hey, kid," he rumbled, softer than he thought possible. "Can you hear me?"

The boy didn't respond, his head lolling to the side as if he didn't have the strength to lift it. Bowser's magic flickered instinctively, scanning the boy's frail form for injuries. What he saw made his claws tighten into fists. Broken ribs, bruises that painted his body in sickening hues, and signs of prolonged starvation—it was a wonder the boy was alive at all.

"Who did this to you?" Bowser growled, his voice low and dangerous. His claws trembled as he gently scooped the boy out of the filthy bag, cradling him in his massive arms. The boy flinched at the contact, and Bowser's heart sank further.

"Easy, kid. I'm not gonna hurt you," he murmured, his fiery magic flaring slightly as he tried to provide warmth without overwhelming the child. His voice, though still deep, carried an uncharacteristic softness. "You're safe now. I've got you."

As he flew the clown car higher, away from the ravine as he finally entered his fiery kingdom, Bowser's mind raced. Whoever had sent this boy through the warp pipe—and in such a vile state—had done so intentionally. They'd thrown him away like garbage. The thought made Bowser's claws twitch, anger boiling in his chest.

He looked down at the boy again, noting the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. There was something strange about it, something that pulsed faintly with a dark, unnatural energy. Bowser wasn't one to dabble much in magic beyond his own fiery powers, but even he could sense that this scar wasn't ordinary.

"Magic," he muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Someone's done something to you, haven't they?" He paused, his voice softening. "What kind of monster hurts a kid like this?"

The boy stirred again, his eyelids fluttering open just enough for Bowser to catch a glimpse of green eyes dull with exhaustion, fear and delirium. "Help… please…" the boy whispered, barely audible, before slipping back into unconsciousness.

Bowser tightened his grip protectively. "Don't worry, kid. I'll figure this out," he rumbled, his tone carrying a rare mix of anger and determination. "Whoever did this to you... they're gonna pay."

With a snarl, Bowser steered the clown car toward his fortress. He had every intention of getting to the bottom of this—and ensuring that no one would ever hurt this child again.

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