The rain had stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city slicked and glistening under a weak winter sun.
James woke in the top floor of an office building, curled inside a sleeping bag scavenged from a sporting-goods store.
His crowbar lay across his chest like a security blanket. Every muscle ached. Dried blood—some his, most not—cracked on his skin when he moved.
He sat up slowly and stared at the gray skyline. Fifteen down. Thirty-five to go.
As if the system had been waiting for him to wake, new words burned across his vision.
Side Quest Issued: Bully's Delight
Objective: Bully 10 zombies before killing them.
(Bully defined as: taunt, humiliate, toy with, or otherwise dominate without immediately killing. Creative methods encouraged.)
Reward: Name change to "Bully Garfield." Protego Diabolica spell (wandless casting unlocked).
Failure Penalty: None.
Progress: 0/10
James blinked. Then he laughed—short, sharp, incredulous.
"Bully zombies?" he muttered. "What the hell kind of quest is that?"
The words didn't answer. They just hovered there, patient.
He rubbed his face. The main quest was brutal but straightforward: kill fifty. This side quest felt like a joke. A cruel one. But the reward…
Protego Diabolica. He remembered the scene from the movies—a ring of blue-black fire that incinerated enemies while protecting allies.
In the books and films it needed a wand and immense power. Here it was offered wandless. And the name change… Bully Garfield.
A reference to that old Spider-Man 3 meme, the dancing, swaggering Tobey Maguire who bullied everyone after getting the symbiote.
He didn't know whether to be offended or intrigued.
But the system had already proven it was real. And anything that gave him an edge in this world was worth considering.
"Fine," he said to the empty room. "Let's bully some zombies."
He spent the morning gathering supplies and scouting. He found an intact hardware store and took a length of chain, a metal baseball bat to replace the dented crowbar, and—on impulse—a bright red hoodie two sizes too big. He also grabbed a cheap Bluetooth speaker someone had left behind, its battery miraculously still holding a charge.
By noon he was ready.
He started small.
The first zombie was alone, shambling down an empty boulevard. It had once been a middle-aged jogger—neon running shoes still bright against decayed legs.
James stepped into the street, hands in his pockets.
"Hey, ugly!" he shouted.
The zombie turned, groaning.
James raised the speaker and hit play. A tinny pop song blared—some early-2000s hit about shaking it. He cranked the volume.
The zombie lurched toward him. James danced sideways, keeping just out of reach, bobbing his head mockingly to the beat. He circled it, close enough that it snapped at empty air again and again.
"Come on, loser! Is that all you got?"
He let it chase him around a parked bus three full times. When it finally tripped over its own dragging foot, James kicked it lightly in the backside, sending it sprawling.
Only then did he swing the bat. One clean hit to the skull.
Side Progress: 1/10
Main Progress: 16/50
The rush surprised him. Not just the kill, but the control. The humiliation. For the first time in months, he wasn't running or hiding. He was playing with his food.
It felt… good.
By late afternoon he'd refined his technique.
Zombie number three got tied to a lamppost with the chain, arms pinned behind it. James stood in front of it and ate a protein bar slowly, making exaggerated "mmm" sounds.
"Wish you could have some, huh? Too bad."
When he finally ended it, the counter ticked to 3/10.
Number five was a big one—former construction worker, still wearing a yellow hard hat cracked down the middle.
James climbed onto the bed of a pickup truck and rained pebbles down on its head until it roared in frustration. Then he hopped down, slapped it across the face with an open palm, and danced away.
He started talking to them. Taunting. Naming them.
"Looking rough today, Karen."
"Big swing and a miss, Chad."
He found a permanent marker and wrote insults on their foreheads before killing them: "Slowpoke," "Loser," "Eats Dirt."
Each time the side counter climbed, the main counter followed.
6/10 side. 21/50 main.
7/10 side. 28/50 main.
He was getting efficient. Creative.
For number eight, he lured three zombies into a dead-end alley, blocked the exit with an overturned dumpster, and spent twenty minutes poking them with a long pole, laughing every time they snarled and flailed.
When he finally dispatched them, the side quest hit 9/10 and the main jumped to 38/50.
The sun was low now, bleeding orange across broken windows. James stood atop an overturned SUV, breathing hard, baseball bat resting on his shoulder.
His red hoodie was splattered black. He felt electric—alive in a way he hadn't since the world ended.
One more for the side quest.
He found it in the parking garage beneath a shopping mall: a zombie in a tattered security uniform, still wearing a name tag that read "MIKE."
James dragged a folding chair into the open, sat down ten feet away, and stared at it.
"Hey, Mike," he said conversationally. "Long shift, huh?"
The zombie groaned and shuffled toward him.
James waited until it was almost in reach, then stood and sidestepped. He tripped it with the bat, watched it crawl, then stepped on its back lightly—not enough to crush, just enough to pin.
"Stay down, Mike. Good boy."
He spent ten full minutes like that—letting it struggle, humming tunelessly, occasionally patting its head with the bat like a misbehaving dog.
Finally, he stood, raised the bat high, and brought it down.
Side Quest Complete: Bully's Delight
Rewards Granted.
The world shifted.
First came the name. It wasn't a notification—it was deeper. A fundamental rewrite. He knew, with absolute certainty, that his name was no longer James.
It was Bully Garfield.
He tested it aloud. "Bully Garfield."
The words felt right. They fit like a glove tailored just for him.
Then came the spell.
Knowledge flooded his mind—not words, but instinct. He raised his right hand, palm outward, and spoke without thinking.
"Protego Diabolica."
A ring of blue-black fire erupted around him, roaring upward in a perfect circle ten feet across. The flames danced, beautiful and terrible, heatless to him but radiating menace. The ground inside the ring remained cool; outside, the air shimmered.
He felt the spell's rules instinctively: it would burn anything he deemed an enemy. It would protect anything he deemed an ally. It obeyed him completely, wandless and effortless.
Bully Garfield lowered his hand. The fire vanished as quickly as it had come.
He grinned—a wide, sharp, dangerous thing.
"Now we're talking."
He didn't stop.
With the ring of fire, zombies became toys.
He walked straight into hordes now, summoning the circle and letting them throw themselves against it.
They burned, screaming in that wet, guttural way the dead had. He stepped through the ashes, bat swinging lazily, finishing any that somehow survived the flames.
Ten became twenty in an hour.
Twenty became thirty by nightfall.
He danced through the streets—literally danced—hip thrusts and finger guns and all the swagger of that old meme made flesh.
The red hoodie flapped like a cape. Black blood steamed off the bat with every swing.
He laughed. Loud. Often.
At some point he found a working car—a battered Jeep with half a tank of gas—and drove it downtown, music blasting from the speaker duct-taped to the roof.
He ran zombies over slowly, bumping them, letting them cling to the hood before accelerating and sending them flying.
Each kill ticked the counter higher.
45/50.
48/50.
49/50.
The city burned in patches where his fire had spread. The night sky glowed.
He stood on the hood of the Jeep in the middle of Pioneer Square, surrounded by a carpet of bodies.
The last zombie—a crawler missing both legs—dragged itself toward him.
Bully Garfield hopped down, crouched, and looked it in its milky eyes.
"You're number fifty," he said almost gently. "Thanks for playing."
He tapped its forehead once with the bat—almost affectionate—then ended it.
Quest Complete: Survivor's Trial
Rewards Granted.
The world dissolved in white light.
When it reformed, Bully Garfield stood in a quiet suburban street lined with identical brick houses.
The air smelled of cut grass and chimney smoke. A cool September breeze carried the faint hoot of an owl.
Privet Drive. Number Four was just ahead.
He checked his pockets. Twenty small green beans rested there—Senzu Beans, warm to the touch.
He was one month before canon. One month before Harry Potter got his letter.
Bully Garfield pulled the red hoodie tighter, cracked his neck, and started walking toward London.