Harry was jolted awake by a sharp pain, his body curled up and trembling uncontrollably.
Harry struggled to open his eyes, his lip already bitten through, crimson blood seeping out, tracing a line from his chin before dripping onto the floor.
But he had no time to worry about that now; Harry surveyed his surroundings, his instincts immediately on alert.
This place was dilapidated and cramped, the light seemingly blocked out by the messy room, which also faintly emitted a stale, musty smell.
Scattered around were all sorts of items, some already broken, others lying there helplessly, and still others floating in midair.
Harry looked up, staring wide-eyed at the floating objects in the air that seemed to defy control.
A magical outburst?
Harry was a bit dumbfounded; he had experienced magical outbursts in his early years, but that was so long ago.
He hadn't had a single outburst since he was seven.
Harry slowly propped himself up, every movement sending searing pain through his body, but Harry, long accustomed to such things, showed little reaction.
What concerned him now was, why was I having a magical outburst?
He quickly noticed something was wrong; his body was pathetically weak, even worse than when he had been severely injured before.
Harry paused, slowly lowering his gaze to his body, where a pair of small, thin hands came into view, as if mocking his current sorry state.
Harry stared at his hands, his eyes slowly widening; trembling, he looked towards a grimy window nearby, and a small, thin boy stared back at him through the glass.
He was far too frail; a baggy shirt hung on him like a sack on a bamboo pole.
Clearly weak, obviously someone who could be knocked out with a single punch.
Was this me?
Harry slowly moved to the window, raised a hand to touch his cheek, his green eyes fixed intently on the reflection in the glass, his expression somber.
Such a frail form… how many years ago was this?
A distant memory surfaced from a corner of his mind, and Harry slowly relaxed his brow: ah, this was my original world.
He stood up unsteadily, his hands clenching slightly; the clash between his abundant soul force and this feeble body threatened to tear the flesh apart with the sheer disparity in power, the pain making his mind strangely alert.
My soul remains strong, so the journey to that magical world after my previous magical outburst wasn't a wild, absurd dream, but a real adventure that happened to me.
So, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and cousin Dudley, how will you treat me now?
Harry closed his eyes gently: will you still see me as a freak, or will your hearts soften somewhat?
It was a pity about his grand endeavor; it had been ruined at the final step when he was killed by his own experiment, perhaps the most humiliating way to die in history.
Thinking of this, Harry's expression darkened slightly: but with the foundation already laid, even if he was dead, those fools would surely be able to successfully build a kingdom for wizards.
With several thousand warehouses full of ammunition, even if they launched a full-scale siege on the Church, they could simply conduct tactical saturation strikes.
Harry slowly exhaled: I'm just a little unwilling to accept it.
He quietly calmed his emotions, then refocused his attention; Harry looked at the small, shabby room and frowned.
It was too dirty here.
He raised his hand, a soft white light blossoming from his fingertips; the dust in the room was instantly swept away, and all the miscellaneous items were neatly arranged in their places.
Harry slowly lowered his hand; the small compartment now looked more than just a little pleasant to the eye.
He felt somewhat satisfied, but before he could make another move, he opened his mouth and vomited blood, dirtying the floor again.
Harry stared blankly at the blood he had spat out.
What? Was he really this fragile?
He raised his hand in disbelief and pinched his nearly fleshless face: a simple cleaning spell, and it made me spit blood?
Was my original body really this weak?
Harry stood there in silence for three minutes; after calming the churning taste of blood in his chest, he cautiously cast a diagnostic spell on himself.
Strands of magic slowly seeped from his fingertips, accompanied by a dull pain that spread through his body, until it reached a critical point where it began to affect his internal organs.
Harry stopped in time and began using the pitiful amount of magic he could squeeze out of this body to check his physical condition.
He looked at the magic feedback that faintly glowed red and twitched his lips.
Wow! His soul and body were mismatched; the overly powerful magic was forcibly restrained within this body, keeping it perpetually on the verge of collapse.
And I'm still alive.
After his shock, Harry cautiously glanced at his own thin arms and legs, then carefully took a few steps forward, slowly making his way to the door.
He looked around, found a paperclip in the now orderly small compartment, and turned his attention to the locked door.
He easily picked the lock and walked out leisurely.
He couldn't use magic; using it would cause his body to break down and then he would die. For him now, overly powerful magic was like poison.
This situation would gradually improve with age, once his body's magical capacity expanded enough to contain his power.
So for now, saving his strength was crucial; if he could do something with his hands, he shouldn't use magic.
When Harry appeared before the Dursleys, they stared at him with shock and confusion, as if wondering how he had gotten out.
But then Uncle Vernon's face turned a deep purple; his massive bulk sprang up from the sofa, and he let out an enraged roar at Harry, who was strolling out slowly. "How did you get out?!"
"You've been using those freakish tricks of yours again, haven't you?!"
Aunt Petunia hugged Dudley, frowning as if looking at Harry with disgust, yet there were other emotions in her eyes as well.
Uncle Vernon's weight was rather unkind to the floor of this house.
Harry watched Uncle Vernon quickly approach him and felt the ground beneath his feet shake.
"I'm warning you, boy! Keep all your disgusting, unnatural freakishness hidden away!"
Uncle Vernon grabbed Harry by the collar and roared angrily, "If I find out you're using it for anything bad again, you'll never come out of that cupboard again!"
Harry calmly tilted his head to avoid the spray of unidentified liquid from Uncle Vernon's mouth and then coughed twice.
"Ugh—"
A mouthful of fresh blood spurted out, splattering all over Uncle Vernon's face.
Uncle Vernon's expression froze completely; Aunt Petunia's face changed dramatically, and she let go of Dudley, screaming as she rushed over.
"Good heavens! Vernon, what have you done? Why is Harry coughing up blood?!"
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