Harry Potter: The Hidden Wizard

If you're reading this, you're definitely one of the muggles from my previous world.So rejoice, you mudblood peasants, as you read the diary of the one and only Archer Blackwood.

Jokes aside, I don't actually have any prejudice against blood status (as they call it in this world).Even though I'm muggle-born, I do understand—and somewhat share—the idea of blood superiority… at least for now. Maybe until I meet Malfoy or Weasley.

Okay, back to the present. I'm currently in my room, trying to move a tiny piece of paper I tore from a tissue—going for the lightest bit possible. I'm giving it my full concentration, even unknowingly holding my breath so nothing disturbs my focus.

And finally, after what felt like a minute… it moved!

Except, no. It didn't move—it freaking flew away.

Sadly, not from my magic, but from the breath I'd been holding in for so long.

It's been a year now. I've been constantly trying to concentrate or do some kind of magic.

Why?

Because I saw some people dressed in robes, carrying large suitcases and an owl at King's Cross railway station.

I was sure they weren't just cosplaying—after all, it's still January 15, 1981. There's no way in hell a book named Harry Potter exists yet. (Just to be sure, I even asked my parents for a Harry Potter book and searched bookstores. Nothing.)

Maybe it's because I'm still just three years old. Maybe I have to wait for some sort of awakening or coming-of-age moment.

Or maybe this is some AU verse with xianxia-type shit, where someone will pass magic into my body to help me break through to Foundation Level or Core Formation… (WTF am I even talking about?).

Or maybe—just maybe—my luck is absolute shit, and I've been reborn in Harry Potter as a freaking squib or even better as a muggle.

Maybe it's time to give up.

. . .

Two years later…

Don't worry, you peasants—I didn't give up. (Actually, I did. Totally.)

But after five years of being reborn, I finally had my first magical reaction. And let me tell you—it was fucking glorious.

See? Hard work actually pays off. This will be the story of my struggle.

Let me take you back. On the day I was born, I was so weak I couldn't even open my eyes. I needed people to clean my poop. I pissed in diapers.

And now? I have become so powerful…

…that I can evaporate my own piss.

Yes. I am now a Piss Evaporator.

So here's what happened—

I had a bad dream. No, scratch that—a horrible dream. In that dream, I became a die-hard fan of Gilderoy Lockhart.

In sheer terror, I pissed myself.

Then I woke up. In fright.

And in that moment, before my very eyes—my piss evaporated.

Maybe… maybe Gilderoy Lockhart is truly powerful. Maybe he has a secret ability that helps people awaken their magic. Maybe I'm onto something here.

Yes. I'm definitely onto something.

That must be the only reason he has so many fans.

You know what? Gilderoy Lockhart just gained another fan.

The Mighty Piss Evaporator fan.

Now, back to the present.

It's still night, and I need to sleep—school tomorrow and all that.

But the real question is… can I sleep on the same bed I just pissed on?

Yeah, no. I don't think I can.

But don't worry—I have a brilliant idea.

I quickly ran to the bathroom, washed up, changed my clothes, and then bolted straight to my parents' room.

I knocked softly, calling for my mother.

She came out, and I immediately hugged her tight.

She stroked my hair and asked, "What happened, baby?"

I looked up at her with my best tragic child expression and whispered, "I had a really bad dream… Can I sleep with you tonight?"

And, of course, I activated my SSS-rank skill: Puppy Dog Eyes.

Judging by her expression, it was a critical hit.

So powerful, in fact, that she asked my dear father to go sleep on my bed instead.

Since we're not rich enough to have a guest room, my plan worked brilliantly.

Maybe Slytherin has already started reserving a room for me.

So bye you peasnt I have a beautiful and lovely lady to sleep with unlike you pedos who have nothing better than reading a fucking diary of 5 year old who was just describing how he pissed.

…

It's been a week since my first accidental magic, and I'm back at it—practicing moving bits of paper.

Maybe, after this much effort, I'll finally become the Ultimate Paper Pusher—a legendary title bestowed only upon those who have reached Level 999 in Bureaucracy.

(…Why the fuck am I ranting about random shit? Back to the topic.)

I still haven't made much progress.

Sometimes, I can make the paper float. Other times, it refuses to budge, like it's mocking me.

Maybe I just need to change the tissue…

Maybe it's a tsundere tissue. (and believe me there is such thing as a tsundere tissue I know because unlike you guys I can do magic)

Let's just keep trying.

…

Wait a minute. Did I even tell you about my family???

Of course I did! How could a magician forget something so simple?

Definitely not my fault.

Clearly, whoever is editing my diary so that you peasants can understand it removed that part.

But fear not! As the Almighty Piss Evaporator, I shall evaporate your worries.

[Archer shouting at the editor in the background:]

"Bhenchode! Motherfucker! Cào nǐ mā! Putain! Hijo de puta! Tu puta madre! Share the details of the great ME with my lovely readers!"

{Editor's note:

Dear readers, if you can read this, please help me.

Whoever this lunatic Archer is, he randomly kidnapped me and told me I have to edit his diary.

Let me tell you, he is the devil incarnate.

According to him, he's only five years old (which I refuse to believe), but he's already subjecting me to psychological torment.

And worst of all?

I'M NOT EVEN AN EDITOR BY PROFESSION.

I was just minding my own business, working at a—

}

[Archer shouting:]

"Ma-ke-laude! Did you finish telling them about me?!"

{Editor's note (again, someone please send help):

I don't think I can give you more details for now, but please—help me.

Here's what I know:

This devil's name is Archer Blackwood.

Born on June 6, 1978.

Father: Arthur Blackwood, 30 years old, works as a car dealer.

Mother: Elizabeth Waters, 27 years old, housewife (she's an angel—HOW did she give birth to this demon?)

Lives in: Exbury House, Hackney, Floor 3, Apartment 303. (Which is also where I'm being held captive. Please, for the love of God, send help.)

}

...

...

So, my peasant friends, now you know something about the great me.

I hope that editor didn't say anything he wasn't supposed to...

Let me check.

.

.

.

(Some time later...)

Looks like he shared too much.

Well, now that it's come to this—

If you want to save this editor, you can help him by joining my Patreon...

…which I will be creating ten diary entries from now.

(Start saving your Galleons, mudbloods.)