Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Fallout
Chapter 1: Echoes in the Lounger
It was the 31st of October, 1988—Halloween night. Not that Harry Potter had any reason to celebrate the holiday. For him, it was a day like all the others he'd known in his short, weary life. A day that began before sunrise and ended long after the sun dipped below the horizon, filled with chores, sharp words, and the relentless scorn of the Dursleys. He was eight years old, but if anyone outside the household were to look upon him, they would swear he was a frail child of four. Thin-limbed, face hollowed by hunger, clothes hanging off him like rags, and a perpetual wariness in his wide, green eyes—eyes too bright, too old for such a young face.
The Dursleys—Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and cousin Dudley—never passed up an opportunity to remind Harry of his supposed worthlessness. He slept in a cramped cupboard beneath the stairs, was fed meager, stale offerings, and wore Dudley's cast-off clothes, torn and often several sizes too large. But worst of all, he was told he was a freak. A dangerous, unnatural child who must never rise above his station. Never show that he was anything more than the whimpering, submissive creature they had molded him to be.
And Harry, small and battered, believed every word. He had been told for as long as he could remember that he was worthless. He had learned to hide everything that made him special. He stifled his intelligence because cleverness got him punishment. He pretended not to excel in class, not to think too deeply, not to solve problems with startling ease. He even tried to restrain those strange occurrences that happened around him—his "freaky stuff" as Aunt Petunia had called it, things he couldn't explain but that seemed to bubble up in moments of desperation and fear. He learned to fear them more than anything else, panic gripping his tiny heart whenever something unexplainable occurred.
He had no idea that in another world, the presence of such "freaky stuff" would have been applauded as magic. He had no notion of the old wizard, Albus Dumbledore, who had bound Harry's incredible magical potential a few years ago. Dumbledore had noticed something extraordinary in the boy—raw magical power that overshadowed even his own—and had arranged for Harry's life to be shaped by misery, to break him down, ensure he was meek and obedient. All for the so-called "Greater Good," which, in truth, was just a cloak for Dumbledore's own thirst for control, fame, and legacy.
None of that mattered to Harry at this moment. He cowered in the back garden after finishing a day of endless chores. Aunt Petunia had locked him out "by accident" while inside the Dursleys enjoyed a special Halloween dinner. From where he curled beneath a thorny rosebush, he heard the laughter, smelled the roasting meat, and felt his stomach twist with hunger. He tried to count the stars or remember something nice—like drawing shapes in the dust behind the school playground, or secretly thumbing through old newspapers to understand math problems no one expected him to solve—but even that solace was slipping away.
Footsteps on the grass. Heavy, plodding. Harry's heart sank. Dudley was on his way.
Dudley emerged, a hulking shape even at eight, his chubby face set in a smirk of sadistic delight. He carried a small cricket bat. He jabbed it into the dirt as he approached, pretending to search for Harry, enjoying the anticipation.
"Freak," Dudley sing-songed. "I know you're out here."
Harry tried to shrink himself smaller. Maybe Dudley would give up? No, Dudley never gave up a chance to make Harry's life a nightmare.
"There you are!" Dudley crowed and lunged. Harry scrambled backwards, knocking into the rosebush, thorns scraping his thin arms. Dudley raised the cricket bat. Not too high—he wouldn't break Harry's bones too obviously. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wouldn't want to deal with hospital bills or questions. But enough to hurt, enough to remind Harry of his place.
The first blow struck Harry's shoulder. A dull pain throbbed through his bones, making him whimper. He didn't resist; he never fought back. He just tried to twist away as the second blow hit his thigh. Tears welled in his eyes, but he willed them not to fall. Crying only made Dudley laugh.
The world narrowed to the smell of damp earth, the sting of sweat and blood, and the rough sound of Dudley's breathing. As the beating continued, Harry's mind retreated to that place where he imagined warm kitchens, gentle smiles, and praises for a clever sketch or a correctly solved math equation. He had never experienced such kindness in reality, but he dared to dream it.
This time, desperation flared in him differently. In that moment of pure agony and fear, Harry wished—wished with an intensity he'd never felt before—to be anywhere else. He didn't care where. Just away from here, away from this garden, this world, away from the pain. He focused on that wish, clutching it like a lifeline, his heart pounding as if it would burst.
Dudley swung again. Harry closed his eyes and screamed silently in his mind:Anywhere but here. Anywhere but here. Please!
A surge of something rose in him, like a coiled spring releasing, a ripple in the air around him, and then—silence.
He didn't notice it immediately. He lay there, curled on a patch of grass, trembling, expecting the next blow. But it didn't come. The smell of earth and roses was gone. Instead, his nostrils filled with an odd, sterile smell, a hint of metal and something musty. The night air of Little Whinging, so familiar and cold, was replaced by a strange stillness.
Harry opened his eyes. The rosebush was gone. Dudley was gone. The Dursleys' neatly trimmed lawn, the dark shape of the house—it had all vanished. Instead, he found himself lying on what seemed like a patch of synthetic turf, the grass too green, too uniform. Around him were houses that seemed…off. They looked like something from old picture books he once glimpsed in discarded library pamphlets, small American suburban homes with picket fences and pastel walls. The sky above had a faint gray cast, as if trapped beneath a dome, and the light felt dim and unnatural, even though it appeared to be daytime.
He staggered to his feet, heart pounding, limbs aching from Dudley's assault. He looked around frantically. There were people, distant figures in the neat street, dressed in old-fashioned clothes that reminded him of pictures from the 1950s. Men in suits and hats, women in dresses and aprons, children laughing and riding bicycles. Everything was too tidy, too clean, too…fake.
Harry shivered. What was this place? Had he died? Was this heaven? But he still hurt too much for heaven. A small panic bubbled up. He must have done something freaky again. He must have done something so unnatural it had whisked him away. Terror gripped him—if Aunt Petunia found out, if Uncle Vernon knew—his heart hammered.
But they weren't here. He didn't recognize anyone. He was completely alone.
He took a hesitant step forward, knees shaking. He noticed now he wasn't barefoot on the grass—he wore old clothes still, ragged and oversized. No one approached him at first. The residents of this strange street went about their business. It was as though he were invisible.
Yet, not everyone ignored him. A small figure across the street watched him intently. A young girl with blonde hair in neat curls, wearing a patterned dress with a wide collar, stood by a white fence. She tilted her head, regarding him curiously. Harry met her eyes and looked away quickly, terrified of causing offense. But the girl smiled gently and waved him over.
Harry gulped, fear and confusion roiling in his stomach. He had nowhere else to go. So, timidly, he crossed the quiet suburban street, feeling as if his every motion was observed by invisible eyes.
When he reached the fence, the girl leaned forward. Up close, her eyes were a peculiar shade of blue-green and held a keen intelligence that made Harry squirm. She seemed older than her apparent age suggested, and there was something in the curve of her smile, something that did not fit the sugary-sweet setting. He tried to speak, but only a faint squeak emerged.
"Hello there," said the girl in a friendly tone. Her accent was crisp, but Harry couldn't place it. It didn't sound exactly British, nor American. It was clipped, measured, and had a faint scholarly lilt. "I haven't seen you around before. Are you new here?"
Harry swallowed. His throat hurt, and he wondered if Dudley's blow had bruised it. "I…I…" he stuttered. He hated his stutter, but fear always made it worse. "Y-yes… I d-don't… know where h-here is."
The girl's eyes narrowed slightly. She seemed…amused, yet curious. "This is our neighborhood. But you do look lost." She glanced up and down the street. "Where are your parents?"
Harry flinched at the mention of parents. He didn't want to talk about the Dursleys, or his mum and dad who he knew were dead. He shook his head, mutely.
The girl's expression softened into concern. She opened the gate and stepped out onto the sidewalk. "My name is Jennifer," she said. "Jennifer Braun. Perhaps I can help you." She extended a small hand.
Harry hesitated. He knew nothing of this Jennifer Braun. He knew nothing of this place. But what else could he do? He was hungry, sore, and frightened. He reached out and took her hand timidly. Her skin felt normal, warm, just like any person's. Somehow, this reassured him.
"C-can you help m-me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "I… I d-don't know h-how I got here."
Jennifer smiled again, more gently this time. "Come inside. Let's get you cleaned up, maybe give you something to eat. You look like you've been through a terrible ordeal."
Harry nodded, tears prickling behind his eyes. Her kindness was so alien to him that it hurt. He followed her through the gate, up the small path to a modest home with a porch swing and flower boxes. It was quiet, warm inside, decorated in a vintage style that Harry recognized only from television glimpses: floral wallpaper, wooden furniture, lace curtains.
Jennifer guided him to a small kitchen. "Sit," she said, gesturing to a chair at a round wooden table. She moved with confidence, an assurance that she belonged here and was used to making decisions. It struck Harry as odd how self-possessed this little girl was. Yet he clung to the kindness like a drowning child clutching a piece of driftwood.
He sat, wincing as his bruises flared with pain. He wondered if she would suddenly turn mean, like Dudley, or sneer at him, or demand he do chores. Instead, Jennifer rummaged through cabinets and soon set a glass of water and a plate with a simple sandwich before him. Harry stared at the food. He was ravenous, but also cautious—he had learned that kindness sometimes came at a cost.
"Go on," Jennifer encouraged softly, noticing his hesitation. "Eat."
Harry picked up half the sandwich. It was ham and cheese—he had never had something so nice just handed to him like this. Usually, he got scraps. He took a small bite. The flavors almost overwhelmed him. He couldn't stop a tear from sliding down his cheek as he chewed slowly, savoring it. This must be a dream, he thought. A strange, wonderful dream.
Jennifer watched him quietly. There was concern in her gaze, but also curiosity. After a few moments, she cleared her throat. "So, do you remember anything?" she asked gently. "Your name? Where you come from?"
"H-Harry," he managed. His voice trembled. He took another bite of the sandwich, working up the courage to say more. He sipped the water, cool and refreshing. "H-Harry P-Potter."
Jennifer nodded. "That's a lovely name, Harry." She leaned her elbows on the table, closer now, her posture almost maternal despite her youthful appearance. "You don't look very well-cared for, Harry. You're… underweight, your clothes are torn, and you have bruises. Did…someone hurt you?"
Harry swallowed hard. He nodded, tears welling again. But he couldn't speak of it. If he told, would he get in trouble? Would he be sent back?
Jennifer's eyes softened further, a deep empathy radiating from her that felt almost too intense. "It's all right. You're safe here. No one can hurt you while you're with me."
Safe. The word sounded strange to Harry. Was there such a place where he could be safe?
Jennifer let him eat in peace for a few minutes before continuing. "Now, Harry," she said, voice low and soothing, "I'm…not like other girls. I'm here to help you." A curious choice of words, but Harry didn't question it. He had no reference point to understand what she meant.
When he finished the sandwich, Jennifer took his hand again. Her hand felt a bit different this time—warmer, more reassuring. Harry looked at her, noticing for the first time that, although her face was that of a young girl, there was something about her eyes that suggested a different age. An older soul, a wisdom that didn't fit. He had no words to describe it.
"Come with me, Harry," Jennifer said gently. She led him through a hallway and into a small sitting room. She gestured for him to sit on a large, comfortable armchair. "I want to ask you some questions, if that's all right. I want to understand how you got here and what you need."
Harry nodded. He was too overwhelmed to argue. Besides, she had fed him. That alone placed her leagues above the Dursleys.
"Harry," Jennifer began softly, "do you remember what happened right before you came here?"
Harry shivered. He remembered Dudley and the cricket bat, the pain. His heart hammered. He remembered wishing desperately to be anywhere else. Did he dare say it out loud? "I…I was getting…h-hurt," he managed, voice cracking. "I w-was with my c-cousin. He beats me." His cheeks burned in shame. "I…w-wished really h-hard to be away. A-anywhere else."
Jennifer leaned forward, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. "You wished? And then… you appeared here?"
Harry nodded, miserable and scared. He could see the gears turning behind Jennifer's eyes. She looked intrigued, even fascinated. "That's unusual," she murmured. She tapped her lip with a finger. "Tell me, Harry—has anything like this happened before? Something you can't explain?"
Harry tensed, heart in his throat. If he admitted to his freaky stuff, would she hate him too? He lowered his eyes and nodded, but ever so slightly. "S-sometimes…things happen," he whispered. "I d-don't mean them to. It's f-freaky stuff."
"Freaky stuff?" Jennifer echoed softly, shaking her head. "Harry, that's not a very nice word to describe what might just be… well, something extraordinary." She paused. "I might even call it 'magic,' for lack of a better word."
Harry froze. Magic? He had heard the word in stories at school, but it was always fairytales. The Dursleys hated anything that smacked of magic or fantasy. He remembered Petunia once shrieking that there was no such thing as magic. Fear spiked in him. He started trembling, his breath coming fast and shallow. He'd been caught! He'd been caught doing freaky stuff, and now Jennifer would hate him too.
Panic washed over him, so sudden and intense he felt dizzy. "N-no! I'm s-s-sorry!" he wailed, tears streaming down his face. He tried to curl into himself, sobbing. "I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I w-won't do it again! P-please don't b-be mad!"
Jennifer's eyes widened in alarm. She reached out and gathered Harry into a careful embrace. He stiffened at the contact, not knowing how to respond. No one ever comforted him like this. Her voice was soft and calm near his ear. "Shh, Harry, it's all right. I'm not angry. I'm just curious. I've never seen something like this. You're not in trouble. It's okay."
Her words, and the gentle, rhythmic pat on his back, slowly eased the panic. Harry hiccupped and sniffled, clinging to her dress sleeve as though it were a lifeline. He dared to lift his eyes and saw no condemnation there, only interest and… compassion?
Jennifer pulled back slightly, still keeping one arm around his shoulder. "I know this must be frightening, Harry. You have no reason to trust me yet. But please understand, I'm here to help you. This place you're in… it's special. Let's call it a safe neighborhood. No one here will hurt you. And I want to help you understand yourself better."
Harry rubbed at his eyes. He managed a weak nod. He was still frightened, but Jennifer's calm demeanor was helping. She seemed different from any adult he'd known—well, was she an adult? She looked like a child, yet acted like someone much older. Harry's mind couldn't quite piece it together, but he felt too exhausted to question it further.
"Now," Jennifer continued, releasing him gently, "I think the first thing we should do is get you into better shape. You need rest, proper food, and clean clothes. Doesn't that sound nice?"
It sounded heavenly. Harry nodded silently.
"Good. I'll set up a room for you, and you can rest. In a day or two, we'll talk more, maybe do a few tests—just simple things. I'm… a sort of scientist, you might say, and I'm very interested in learning how you managed to do what you did." She smiled wryly. "I know 'magic' is a bit of a stretch as a term, but it's all I can think of right now."
Harry tilted his head. A scientist? He didn't know many scientists, just the ones he read about in passing. He'd once been fascinated by science at school, secretly devouring textbooks during recess. Now he perked up slightly. "S-scientist?" he whispered, curiosity winning over fear for a moment.
Jennifer chuckled, a warm sound. "Yes, in a manner of speaking. I'm Dr. Jennifer Braun. But that's a secret, okay?" She placed a finger to her lips, winking conspiratorially. "For now, just think of me as your friend."
Dr. Jennifer Braun. Harry would remember that name. It sounded important. He glanced around again, at the neat house with its old-fashioned décor, and then out the window at the perfect suburban street. Something about all this still felt…off. But he was too tired to pursue it. Right now, all he wanted was to lie down and maybe sleep without fear.
Jennifer guided him upstairs. The hallway was lined with framed photographs—though oddly, the people in them sometimes looked slightly off-focus, their faces generic and bland. He almost tripped once, too tired to walk straight, but Jennifer caught him by the elbow. She opened a door to a small bedroom that looked like it belonged to a child: a single bed with a patchwork quilt, a dresser, a small desk, and a bookshelf.
"You can stay here," Jennifer said softly. "Rest as long as you like. Tomorrow, we'll talk more. For now, you're safe, Harry."
Harry nodded mutely, stepping into the room. He ran a hand over the quilt, amazed at its softness. He turned back. "Th-thank you," he whispered. Gratitude and confusion welled inside him, mixing into a knot in his chest. "I…I d-don't know w-why you're being nice to me."
Jennifer's face flickered with an emotion Harry couldn't name. "Because you deserve kindness," she said simply. "No one should hurt a child like you. You're special, Harry, and I want to help you understand that."
Harry blushed, not used to compliments. He felt strangely exposed, as though she could see through his attempts to hide his intelligence, his talents. He only nodded again and looked down at his feet.
"Sleep well," Jennifer said softly. She stepped out and closed the door quietly behind her.
Alone in the quiet room, Harry struggled out of his oversized shirt and trousers. He found a simple nightshirt folded at the foot of the bed—he hadn't noticed it before, but there it was. He slipped it on. It fit reasonably well. Too tired to question anything further, he climbed into bed. The mattress was like a cloud compared to his cupboard floor.
Before long, he drifted into a troubled sleep, images of the Dursleys chasing him blending with the strange suburban street and Jennifer's kind eyes. He feared waking to find it all a cruel dream.
But it wasn't a dream. When Harry woke the next morning, he was still in that cozy little room. The sunlight streaming through the window was subdued, filtered in a way that made him think of old movie sets. He got up, wincing slightly at his bruises, and ventured downstairs. The house was quiet, but the kitchen table held a bowl of porridge and fruit, along with a note:
Eat up, I'll be back soon. –Jennifer
Harry slowly ate, still expecting some catch, some trick. But the food was good and no one appeared to shout at him. After breakfast, he ventured into the living room. The neighborhood outside the window looked the same as yesterday—people strolling, watering lawns, children playing hopscotch. Everything calm and perfect.
A perfect life… but too perfect, maybe.
Around midday, Jennifer returned. She didn't enter through the front door—one moment he was alone, the next she was in the hallway, straightening a skirt that Harry didn't recall her wearing before. The air smelled faintly of ozone, making Harry wrinkle his nose.
"Good afternoon, Harry," she said brightly. "I'm glad to see you up. How are you feeling today?"
Harry shrugged, unsure how to answer such a question honestly. "O-okay," he replied softly. "Thank you for the f-food."
Jennifer beamed. "You're very welcome. Now, if you feel up to it, I thought we might spend a little time talking about you and running a few tests. Nothing scary, I promise."
Harry nodded, apprehension gnawing at him. Tests? He remembered IQ tests at school. He had taken one without understanding what it was, and the result had shocked the teacher: an IQ of 288, far beyond genius level. But the Dursleys had scolded him severely for drawing attention to himself, and Harry had learned to keep his intellect hidden after that. Still, he couldn't hide it from Jennifer if she was really a scientist, could he?
"Tests?" he whispered, voice trembling.
"Just some questions, perhaps some puzzles, maybe a few scans," Jennifer said casually. "I'm curious about how you got here and how you performed that… displacement. I want to understand if there's some energy at work."
Harry's eyes widened. "E-energy?"
Jennifer shrugged. "I'm a scientist, remember? I explore what I don't understand. Don't worry, I won't hurt you. I just want to learn."
Harry nodded again, reluctantly. He followed her into a back room he hadn't noticed before. It looked like a small study or laboratory. There were odd instruments on a table—devices Harry didn't recognize, with blinking lights and humming wires. Jennifer pulled up a chair and gestured for him to sit. He did so, heart pounding.
"First, Harry," she began kindly, "I want you to relax. Let's just talk. Can you tell me more about where you came from? The year, for instance?"
"The y-year?" Harry asked, confused. "It's 1988," he answered. That was something everyone knew.
Jennifer's eyebrows rose slightly. She made a note on a small pad. "1988, interesting." She tapped her pen on the desk. "Harry, this might sound strange, but the current date here is 31 October, 2188."
Harry blinked, the numbers making his head spin. He tried to understand. That was… two hundred years in the future? That couldn't be right. He must have misheard. "T-two hundred years?" he stuttered. "H-how?"
Jennifer leaned forward, intrigued. "That's what I want to find out. It seems you somehow moved through space—and maybe time. Or at least that's how it appears."
Harry's heart pounded. Two hundred years in the future? The Dursleys… they would be long gone. Everyone he knew. Even that old headmaster, Dumbledore, who he barely remembered as a distant figure who left him at the Dursleys' doorstep. Harry knew nothing of the wizarding world, but the mention of time passing stirred something deep within him. If it was true, then…he was free? Forever away from them?
Tears welled in his eyes again, a mix of fear and relief. He didn't know if he should be happy or terrified. Jennifer reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"It's all right, Harry," she said gently. "If it helps, I don't know much about where you came from, only what you tell me. You say it's 1988 where you're from. But this environment—" she gestured around vaguely—"is far removed from that time."
Harry sniffled, nodding. He didn't know what to say. "I j-just wanted to g-get away," he offered lamely. "I didn't mean t-to time travel."
Jennifer nodded, thoughtful. "Sometimes extraordinary things happen when people are pushed to their limits." She took a deep breath. "Let's do a few simple tests. I want to see how you think. No pressure, Harry. Just answer as best you can."
He nodded. Jennifer began asking him simple math problems at first. Harry answered timidly, still trying to sound less intelligent than he was. But as the questions grew harder, something in Jennifer's encouraging gaze urged him not to hide. After all, she wasn't hurting him, and she seemed excited rather than disgusted when he answered correctly.
Soon, Harry was solving complex mathematical puzzles, ones that should have stumped adults. Jennifer watched with rapt attention, occasionally adjusting a small device that made a soft clicking sound. When Harry provided a solution that soared beyond what she expected, she smiled broadly.
"Incredible," she murmured. "Harry, you are very clever, aren't you?"
He blushed, averting his eyes. "I d-don't know," he mumbled.
"You are," Jennifer insisted, patting his hand. "Don't hide it. Intelligence is a gift."
Her words echoed in his mind. Intelligence is a gift. So different from the Dursleys, who punished any sign of cleverness. He felt a lump in his throat. Maybe here, it was safe to be smart.
Jennifer switched to a different set of tests—pattern recognition, logic puzzles, spatial reasoning. Harry breezed through them, surprising even himself. He was out of practice at showing his true capability, yet the answers flowed like water.
Next, she asked him about what he enjoyed doing. Harry hesitated, then mentioned quietly that he liked to draw and cook. Jennifer's eyebrows shot up. "Cook? At your age?"
"I h-had to cook for my relatives," Harry said softly. "They said I w-was bad at it, but I liked it anyway." He remembered the humiliation, the insults. But also the joy of mixing ingredients, making something that smelled good—rare moments of stolen pleasure in his bleak life.
Jennifer's expression clouded, anger flickering briefly in her eyes. She didn't like the sound of Harry's home life, that much was clear. She let it pass and returned to her questions. "Could you cook something for me someday?" she asked gently. "I'd love to try your cooking."
Harry nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. The idea that someone actually wanted to taste his cooking filled him with a shy warmth. Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all.
Finally, Jennifer picked up a device resembling a thick bracelet and slid it onto Harry's wrist. It was warm and hummed softly. "This is just going to read some of your… let's say energy patterns, Harry. It won't hurt."
Harry eyed it nervously but nodded. The device pulsed softly. Jennifer watched a screen intently as lines scrolled across it. She tapped her lip again. "Hmm," she said under her breath. "I don't see any familiar patterns."
She looked at Harry. "Could you try remembering the moment you got here? Focus on that feeling you had when you left your old life."
Harry swallowed hard. "O-okay," he whispered. He closed his eyes, heart clenching as he recalled Dudley's beating, the terror and pain, the desperate wish. He remembered that surge of something—like a rubber band snapping.
The device beeped and Jennifer's eyebrows soared. "Fascinating," she breathed. She pressed a few buttons. "Harry, this is remarkable. Your body… or your mind, rather, emits some kind of… energy fluctuation I've never seen."
He opened his eyes, frightened. "I-Is that bad?"
"No," Jennifer said quickly. "Just unexpected. It might take me some time to understand it. But it's certainly not bad, Harry. If anything, it proves how special you are."
Harry flushed. Special. The Dursleys had called him a freak, abnormal. But Jennifer said special. He liked her words better.
They spent the afternoon this way, talking about harmless topics when Harry got too overwhelmed, then returning to the tests. Jennifer slowly drew him out, letting him speak of his life a bit more, careful not to push too hard. She learned of his chores, his cupboard, the beatings, the insults. Her eyes hardened at these revelations, and Harry shrank back, afraid he'd angered her.
But Jennifer wasn't angry at him. She was furious at what had been done to him. She kept her voice calm, though Harry could sense the tension. "I'm sorry you had to endure that, Harry," she said softly. "No child should."
At some point, Harry asked timidly, "W-where are we? This street… it doesn't l-look normal."
Jennifer paused. She considered her words carefully. "This is a… protected place," she said slowly. "You might think of it as a bubble in time and space. A simulation, perhaps."
Harry frowned. Simulation wasn't a word he fully understood, but he recognized it from a science magazine he once glimpsed. "L-like a dream?"
Jennifer smiled gently. "Something like that, but more real than a dream. A place where everything is controlled and safe."
Safe. That word again. Harry latched onto it. If this was a bubble of safety, then maybe he didn't need to fear the Dursleys anymore.
They continued like this for several weeks, as October 2188 turned into November. Each day, Jennifer introduced small variations to Harry's routine. She taught him simple science experiments, showed him how to read odd instruments. She encouraged him to cook a meal—he made a simple stew, and Jennifer praised it so lavishly he almost cried with joy. She found him paper and pencils, and he drew quietly, lost in concentration, while she studied him and her mysterious instruments.
Harry blossomed under this attention. He gained a little weight from the regular meals, though he still looked younger than his eight years. He learned not to jump at every sudden sound, though he remained shy and stuttered sometimes. He was still frightened of the idea of "magic," but Jennifer reassured him that no one would punish him for it. Slowly, Harry dared to believe her.
Jennifer, for her part, grew more intrigued. Who was this child, really? How did he come from 1988 to 2188? Was this truly time travel or something else entirely? She ran subtle tests behind the scenes, scanning the simulation's parameters. She was Dr. Jennifer Braun, Overseer of Vault 112's experiment, and absolute mistress of this virtual reality world. She had long since grown bored of the hapless occupants who were trapped in her simulations. They had become her playthings over centuries, their memories erased and minds reshaped at her whim. She had been Dr. Braun once—the genius who designed the Garden of Eden Creation Kit and oversaw Project Tranquility Lane. She had changed her identity, her appearance, and her mannerisms countless times. After all, within this simulation, she could be whomever she liked. Usually, she found new ways to torment the vault's inhabitants, resurrecting them in different utopias turned nightmares.
But Harry was different. He had appeared uninvited, slipping into her domain from another time. The system's logs showed no new occupant added physically. He had simply… manifested. This fascinated her. She had toyed with countless simulations over the centuries, grown jaded with cruelty and boredom. Now, here was a puzzle, a living, breathing enigma. More importantly, a child who needed help. It stirred something in her. She found herself leaning into the maternal role she had adopted. For once, instead of torment, she wanted to nurture, to understand genuinely.
As November progressed, Jennifer began adopting a form closer to her own age—her real age (or at least the age she had been when she first entered the vault centuries ago) was long lost to time. She appeared now not as a little girl, but as a woman in her thirties with kind eyes and a warm smile, explaining to Harry that she could change how she looked in this place. Harry accepted this with surprising calm—by now, he had learned that normal rules didn't apply here.
In her adult guise, Jennifer was even more caring and patient. She brushed his messy hair, helped him dress in new clothes she conjured from the simulation's databanks, and gently encouraged him to talk about his fears. When Harry mentioned "freaky stuff" again, Jennifer soothed him, suggesting they think of a better name. While "magic" wasn't scientific, she allowed that it was a placeholder term until they discovered the real phenomenon.
Harry's panic attacks became less frequent. Whenever he did something unexplainable—like making a dropped pencil reappear on the table—he would freeze and hyperventilate. Jennifer would hug him, reassure him, stroke his hair, and say, "It's all right, Harry. You're safe." Gradually, he believed her.
In the quiet evenings, Jennifer told Harry stories—not ones from any known world, but anecdotes of her life before, carefully edited to omit the darker truths. She told him about scientists and explorers who sought knowledge, about farmers who rebuilt lands after disasters, about families who cared for one another. Harry listened, wide-eyed, absorbing these gentle tales that contrasted sharply with the hostility of his past.
He never asked about leaving this place. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. He had no life to go back to. Here, there was kindness, learning, and the first taste of affection he had ever known.
Jennifer studied him closely during these talks, noting how quick he was to understand concepts beyond his years. She tested his artistic abilities, giving him charcoal and sketchbooks. His drawings were meticulous and expressive. She asked him to design a small machine that could lift a weight using simple gears, and he drafted a blueprint that astonished her. He had a prodigious mind, nurtured in secret despite abuse. Now, set free, it flourished.
She wondered about the powers that had brought him here. If they were indeed related to the "magic" he feared, what did that mean for her simulation? Could Harry alter it unintentionally? She saw no sign of him warping the code of the simulation. Instead, it seemed more like he had tapped into some unknown force to escape his past life.
By the end of November 2188, after a month of careful nurturing, Harry was a different child. Still small and timid, yes, but more secure. He smiled shyly at Jennifer, trusted her to guide him, and even asked timid questions about the strange future they lived in.
Jennifer decided to tell him small truths. She explained that the world outside this safe neighborhood had suffered terrible catastrophes—nuclear wars that destroyed much of civilization. This was a protected environment, a remnant of old technology, where people could live in a never-ending simulation of peace. Harry listened, horrified at the idea of nuclear war, but relieved that they were safe inside.
They both knew this safety was artificial, that this was not the real world—but for Harry, who had never known kindness in the real world, this was better than any reality he could imagine.
Dumbledore, far away in another dimension or timeline, had no idea that his carefully laid plans to shape Harry into a sacrificial pawn had been thwarted. Harry's accidental time-slip had removed him from that cruel destiny. The manipulative old wizard's grand schemes would never come to fruition now. Harry's "death" at Voldemort's hands would never occur, and Dumbledore's heroic reappearance to slay the Dark Lord and bask in glory would remain an unrealized fantasy. Harry would never even know how close he had come to being used as a tool for someone else's ambition.
Harry's powers remained mysterious, unexplored beyond a few panicked incidents. Jennifer decided not to push too hard. The boy was fragile, and she had eternity to learn about him. Meanwhile, she found herself bonding with him, enjoying his presence. For the first time in centuries, she felt a genuine spark of purpose beyond sadistic curiosity. She had lost count of how many cycles of simulated lives she had unleashed upon the trapped subjects of Vault 112. Always wiping their memories, manipulating them, growing bored. Now, Harry brought something new—a real puzzle, a companion who challenged her intellect and sparked her compassion.
As November approached its end, on the 30th, Jennifer decided to mark the occasion. She prepared a small feast within the simulation—a roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables, freshly baked bread, and a small apple pie. She called Harry to the dining table.
When Harry saw the spread, he froze, eyes wide. He had never seen so much good food meant just for him and Jennifer. He looked at her, heart full, unsure what to say.
Jennifer smiled warmly. She wore a simple green dress today, her brown hair tied back. She placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him to a chair. "Harry," she said softly, "this last month, I've come to care a great deal about you. Your strength, your intellect, your kindness—even after all you've been through—you amaze me."
Harry flushed, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He didn't know what to say. Words stuck in his throat.
Jennifer continued, voice gentle. "I know we don't understand everything yet. But I promise you, I will help you. I'll protect you. You don't have to be afraid anymore."
Harry's lower lip trembled. He nodded slowly. "T-thank you," he whispered, voice choked with emotion.
They ate together, quietly at first, then chatting softly about nothing in particular. Harry complimented the bread, noting how perfectly baked it was. Jennifer encouraged him to guess how she made it. He suggested slight variations in temperature and yeast; she laughed and admitted he was right.
After dinner, Harry helped clear the table—a habit he had from the Dursleys, but now done willingly, without fear. Jennifer dried the dishes, smiling contentedly. The simulation hummed quietly in the background, the suburban street outside remaining a peaceful tableau.
Later that evening, Harry sat by the window in the living room, watching the simulated sunset over the roofs of the perfect houses. Jennifer sat in an armchair, studying a clipboard of data. She glanced up at the boy, her ward now, and wondered what the future held.
A month had passed since he arrived here on October 31st, 2188. He had changed her routine, disrupted her long monotony, and brought genuine affection back into her existence. She was supposed to be some grand overseer, playing with human minds, but now she felt more like a mother, or a mentor, to this extraordinary child.
Harry turned his head and caught her eye, smiling shyly. Jennifer smiled back. Words were unnecessary. Both understood that this odd arrangement—an ancient scientist and a misplaced boy genius with strange powers—was something special.
Outside this simulation, the wasteland of a post-nuclear world lay silent. Inside, in their safe bubble of time and space, the two of them had begun forging a new life, one that would be defined not by abuse or cruelty, but by curiosity, compassion, and understanding.
In that quiet moment, as November drew to a close, Dr. Jennifer Braun vowed silently that she would never let anyone harm Harry again. He would never return to misery, never be used as a pawn. As far as she was concerned, he was hers to protect now.
And Harry, still uncertain, but slowly daring to believe, felt for the first time in his life that maybe, just maybe, he could be happy and safe.
They stayed like that for a long time, the hum of the simulation their only witness, as new chapter of their strange new life came to a gentle close.
AN:
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