The year was 1990.
December in London was always the same—the sky so leaden and overcast it felt as though the sun might never shine again.
At this moment, Harry Potter's mood was every bit as dismal as the weather. He stood beneath the porch of Number 4, Privet Drive, staring out at the fine, biting drizzle and letting out a slow, heavy sigh.
"Hurry up, boy!" Uncle Vernon's impatient voice bellowed from the living room. "Dudley wants chocolate, so you're going to get it. Stop dawdling! An umbrella... forget it. It's hardly raining; I don't think you'll be needing one."
Harry pulled his oversized coat tighter around his thin frame—it was one of Dudley's hand-me-downs—and stepped out into the damp.
For Harry, this treatment was a daily reality. His status within the Dursley household had never been anything more than an inconvenience. The rain quickly soaked the hems of his trousers, sending a creeping chill up his ankles. Keeping his head down, he hurried along the pavement, the streetlights flickering like ghosts through the misty rain.
Fortunately, the corner shop wasn't far; even for a ten-year-old, the walk was short. But just as the silhouette of the convenience store came into view, Harry froze.
"When did that get here?" he murmured, looking in confusion at the space next to the shop.
Beside the lonely convenience store, a new building had appeared out of nowhere.
"Sunshine, Daisies, and Sweet Butter?"
Harry read the sign above the door, wondering if it was a florist or perhaps a bakery. He peered through the window and saw a collection of seemingly ordinary potted plants. It appeared to be a standard nursery—nothing particularly special.
Just as Harry turned to leave, something caught his eye.
Right in the center of the display, a cactus was moving. As Harry watched, it began to sway and writhe, almost as if it were dancing.
Is that... some new species? Harry wondered.
Driven by curiosity, he approached the door and pushed it open.
Inside, the environment felt like a typical plant shop. Shelves were packed with various greens and flowers, and the air was thick with the scent of damp earth. Several empty landscape paintings hung on the walls; Harry couldn't help but feel they would look better if someone actually painted people into them.
More peculiar still was a door standing entirely on its own in the middle of the shop. It wasn't connected to a wall; it just stood there, solitary and strange.
The door looked ancient. The wood was weathered with cracks, and the brass handle had oxidized into a dull green. Harry approached it, his curiosity piqued. He reached out and instinctively touched the handle.
Who would leave a door just sitting here? he thought.
Suddenly, the world shifted.
A vine whipped out from the gap beneath the door, lashing tightly around Harry's wrist. Before he could react, more vines surged from behind the door, coiling around his body like striking snakes.
"Ah!" Harry cried out, struggling to break free, but the vines possessed an uncanny, crushing strength. He was yanked violently toward the door.
"No! Let me go!"
Harry thrashed, but the vines showed no mercy, dragging him bodily into the darkness beyond the frame.
Inside Alaric Thorn's plantation.
This was a massive conservatory—Alaric's primary greenhouse—dedicated mostly to the cultivation of common potion ingredients.
Alaric Thorn looked down at Harry Potter and felt his lips twitch. He had only stepped out to Diagon Alley to pick up some Dittany seeds, and he returned to find a young boy ensnared by his security system: a patch of Devil's Snare.
Probably a wizard's kid from the neighborhood playing where they shouldn't, Alaric thought.
"Children these days... far too mischievous," Alaric muttered. Seeing Harry's terrified expression, he shook his head and stepped forward, lightly patting the thick vines of the Devil's Snare. "Let him go."
At Alaric's command, the Devil's Snare uncoiled from the trembling boy, its tendrils affectionately brushing against Alaric's cheek before retracting.
"Alright, alright, get back to your post," Alaric said with a faint smile, gently pushing the vines away. "You did a good job with the security."
Praising the plant seemed to work; the Devil's Snare waved a vine like a hand and receded into the shadows.
Alaric then turned his gaze toward the uneasy Harry, narrowing his eyes slightly as he took him in.
"Whose child are you?" Alaric asked, his voice calm and refined.
Harry swallowed hard, his fingers twisting together nervously. He realized he had stumbled into somewhere extraordinary. The man before him was clearly no ordinary person—he controlled those terrifying vines and made them obey him.
Yet, Harry didn't feel afraid. He felt a strange sense of kinship, a recognition of something familiar.
"I'm sorry, sir. I saw the shop was open and I just wanted a look, but then those vines grabbed me," Harry replied cautiously.
Alaric nodded, seemingly unsurprised. Harry was a mess; his wet hair was plastered to his forehead, his glasses were crooked, and he looked thoroughly rattled.
"It's quite alright, child. That was Devil's Snare. It's meant to catch any wizard who wanders in uninvited." As he spoke, Alaric drew a wand from the pocket of his robes and gave it a casual flick toward Harry.
Instantly, the rainwater vanished. Harry's clothes were dry, and his hair was no longer damp.
"Wizard?" Harry latched onto the word. "What's that?"
Alaric paused, a look of genuine confusion crossing his face. Is the boy a Muggle? Muggles weren't supposed to be able to see this shop. He began to wonder if his Muggle-Repelling Charms had failed.
Just as Alaric began to doubt his own spellwork, Harry introduced himself. "My name is Harry Potter. I live just nearby at..."
Alaric froze.
"Harry... Potter..."
He whispered the name as ancient memories surged to the surface. It had been so long that he had almost forgotten he lived in the world of Harry Potter.
Alaric had arrived here back in 1965. Born into a Muggle family, he had assumed it was a standard reincarnation until he received his Hogwarts letter at age eleven. Only then did he realize where he was—though, according to the timeline, he had arrived far too early. The protagonist hadn't even been born yet.
Alaric had embraced his new life; after all, who wouldn't want to master magic? At Hogwarts, he had been an exceptional student, though he maintained a low profile. During the height of Voldemort's first rise, being a Muggle-born student meant having a target on one's back.
Voldemort had fallen just as Alaric was graduating. Afterward, Alaric spent six years traveling the globe, exploring the farthest reaches of the magical world. He had only returned to London two years ago.
Over the decades, the specific details of the "Harry Potter plot" had faded from his mind, which was why he hadn't recognized the boy immediately.
As the realization settled, Alaric noted the striking resemblance. The messy black hair, the brilliant green eyes, and the lightning-bolt scar etched into his forehead.
Was this a coincidence? Alaric wondered.
When he had returned to England, he had simply picked a quiet Muggle neighborhood to settle down in. He had never imagined he had moved right next door to the Boy Who Lived.