1st September 1989 – Kings Cross Station.

It was just my father and I as we made our way through the famous train station. For the first time since I had been reborn, I was in a place I had actually been in my old life. Of course, it wasn’t quite as I recalled; I hadn’t been born for another two years after all. Seeing muggles in great concentration again was peculiar beyond words, so many oblivious to the wide and wondrous wizarding world. It brought about a strange melancholy and regret in me as I was reminded of the life I had lived without the touch of magic. Seeing 80’s fashion in the flesh was also somehow stranger than the wizard attire I had grown used to.

It was only 10 am so we had plenty of time before the Hogwarts express was due to depart, and I didn’t notice any other excitable 11-year-olds about with their guardians and school things, at least not yet. There was no queue at the hidden entrance to platform 9¾ and so we went straight ahead.

As I hit the wall with my trolley at a quick walking pace, I couldn’t help but wonder at the magic on display. It was either dimensional to some extent or some form of teleportation, but moving through the visually solid brick wall felt more like I was simply travelling through an illusion than the usually sickening sensation of teleportation.

The sight of the Hogwarts Express brought out a childish giddiness in me equal to how I had felt at Diagon alley. We were not the first ones on the platform, but nor was it particularly busy. It felt strange seeing so many eleven-year-olds, my first thought as I looked at them was just how young they appeared, and yet they were the same age as I was.

Not for the first time, I considered how I would get along with my fellow students. I was, mentally speaking, a grown man, and I’d never had the patience for kids and their antics in either life, with the sole exception of Emelia. I already knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I wouldn’t even think about being intimate with anyone until I’d left the school. One could question whether it was morally justified considering I was in the body of an eleven-year-old, but I decided just avoiding it entirely was the safest option.

I had my doubts about friendships as well. I’d always had a tendency to keep to myself, and that hadn’t changed, but I wasn’t entirely a miserable git either. Mentally shrugging, I decided whatever happened, happened, but I wouldn’t be going out of my way to make friends with a bunch of kids.

Just as I was saying goodbye to father, a warm feeling filling me as he embraced me, I witnessed a certain family arriving behind him. There were eight of them in total, all with unmistakable ginger hair and either kind or gaumless looks on their faces. The Weasleys had arrived.

I could recognise each of them just by their age. Arthur and Molly were doing their best to wrangle their kids, and I couldn’t help but recall that the latter had been the one to eventually put an end to Bellatrix Lestrange. With any luck, the dark witch would be dead before it ever came to that this time around.

Bill Weasley was absent from what I could tell, though if my memory served then he should have graduated from Hogwarts this year. Most of his life after that, but before his eventual wedding and the disaster that would turn out to be, was unknown to me or lost somewhere in the vast collection of trivia floating about in my head.

Then there was who I assumed to be Charles Weasley, about which the only thing I recalled was that he studied dragons in Romania, or at least would do when he graduated in a couple of years. Next was Percy, not yet a prefect, though what drew my eye was the rat missing a toe nibbling away at something on his shoulder.

My grip on my wand tightened, hidden as it was up the sleeve of my crimson blazer. I very briefly considered just blasting the rat now with the fire-making charm but quickly dismissed it. Now was neither the time nor the place, and I doubted it would have even worked. Spontaneous and emotional action almost always resulted in unforeseen and disastrous consequences. If I was going to do anything about Peter Pettigrew, and I still hadn’t entirely decided if I was, then it would only be once every variable had been considered and addressed.

Next, of course, were the twins. The same age as I and looking more than excited to be starting their first term at Hogwarts, side by side and inseparable as always. I anticipated I’d be interacting with them not infrequently in the years to come, though I wanted to make sure it wasn’t because I was the butt of one of their practical jokes.

And there, at his mother's side, was the first of the golden trio I had lain eyes on so far. His young eyes stared at his twin brothers with equal parts jealousy and awe. Ronald Weasley. He wouldn’t be starting for another couple of years yet, and it was strange to think that his two future best friends were out there, still entirely oblivious to the wizarding world.

Last but not least was an even younger Ginny, clinging to her older brother Bill. Not one of the trio, but one of the more important characters besides.

Referring to them as characters felt wrong now I was seeing them in the flesh. These were living, breathing people with hopes and dreams. It was clear the affection the family held for one another, unashamedly displaying it in direct opposition to the other uptight pure-blood families, characteristics that, though we were not pure-bloods, the Thorneheart family shared.

I once again felt melancholy and no small amount of guilt when looking at the happy family. The future would not be kind to them, especially Fred and his twin, and though none of it would be my fault, if things proceeded as in the books then I would be guilty through inaction if nothing else.

When father broke our embrace, he followed my eyes to the Weasleys. “I thought they’d be here. Come on Victor, let me introduce you, we’ve got plenty of time.”

It was with some trepidation then that I followed him over, and though I fought against it I could help but stare at the rat that wasn’t a rat.

“Good morning Arthur! Molly! It's been too long!” My father said in his usual jovial tone.

“Thaddeus! Too long indeed.” It was Molly who stepped forward through her many children and embraced my father, much to my surprise.

“And who is this?” she asked as they parted, looking down at me.

“That’s my Victor. He’s starting this year, same as your twins.” Came father’s reply.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, young man.” She held out a hand for me to shake.

Considering this was my first proper public appearance as a member of the Thorneheart family to another wizarding family, if one ignored Ollivander, I wanted to make a first impression that mother would be proud of. Father could get away with acting as he did, but I could not and didn’t really want to, it was important to mother so it was important to me.

Ensuring my back was straight, I looked the woman in the eyes and shook her hand firmly. “Likewise, Mrs Weasley.” In my old life growing up in Manchester I’d had a northern accent, and I’d made considerable effort to eradicate it in favour of the more respectable posh accent I spoke with now.

I was most definitely doing it for mother's sake and certainly not because I found it enjoyable. Wizards just looked like they should be posh, and I stood by that belief.

Molly smiled at me in an unintentionally condescending way that made it appear as though she found me ‘cute’, which I immediately resented. She then promptly introduced me to the rest of her extensive family, shaking hands with each of them. Fred was the last one to hold out his hands in greeting, and I spied the shocker in his palm just in time to avoid being surprised. I shook his hand anyway, enduring the jolt it sent through my arm with a smile as I looked him in the eye.

The twins shared a look that I pretended not to notice. The adults had done that annoying thing that adults do but only children notice, began talking to each other as though we were not there. Father was asking Arthur about his job at the ministry or some such, leaving me at the mercy of the Weasley children.

“Was it broken?” George whispered to Fred not so subtly.

“Was what broken?” I asked them both, and their eyes turned to me.

“Nothing.” They said simultaneously.

Leaning forward, and making a point of looking back to the distracted adults, I whispered conspiratorially to the twins. “They work better if you turn your palm down so they can’t be seen.”

Their eyes went wide, looking flustered. I had lived through my share of practical jokes in the military and I absolutely disdained them, I was only egging on the twins in the hope that they’d avoid me in the future.

Several moments of unbearably awkward silence followed, finally broken by Ron of all people. “Which house do you think you’ll be sorted into? Gryffindor?”

It was a question I had thought about considerably. Ultimately, though, I had decided it didn’t really matter which house I got put in, I would be following my own path regardless. Nevertheless, from what I knew about myself if I had to guess I’d have said “Gryffindor, most likely. Both my parents were. I’m sure you and your brothers will be as well, if my memory serves me all Weasleys are.”

Not once had fear ever stopped me from doing my job back when I had been in the marines and later with the special forces, no matter how bad it had gotten. I could make a case for all the houses, but looking back at my past it was probably the aspect of myself that I was proudest of.

“I can’t wait. I’m going to be quidditch captain, just you wait and see.” He proclaimed with childish confidence.

Raising an eyebrow, I fought off a smile. “I look forward to seeing the day.”

With that, it finally seemed like our parents had finished catching up, much to my relief. Smalltalk could be so exhausting, and I was most definitely out of practice.

“Come on then Victor, let the Weasleys say their goodbyes.” My father said walking back towards the train as I followed closely behind.

Just before one of the steps onto the train, he turned to me and placed his hand on my shoulder as looked down with an almost sad expression. “Alright then Victor, this is it. Your mother wanted me to tell you good luck and that she is sorry she’s not here to see you off. Study hard, your mother might kill you if you don’t, but make sure you have some fun as well. My years at Hogwarts were some of the best of my life, and Dumbledore is a great man so you’re in good hands. Remember to write when you can, and I imagine you’ll see us at Christmas. I love you, son, make me proud.”

Words failed me as I felt an unusual surge of emotion well up in me that was beyond my experience to fully explain, other than that it felt good. So, I just nodded in reply and boarded the train before I could make a fool of myself. I caught one final glance of my father out of the corner of my eye before I set off down the first carriage.

Looking into each of the roomettes, I was searching for one that was unoccupied. Although it had gotten busier during the time we had spent talking to the Weasleys, there were plenty devoid of other passengers. I chose one at random and quickly stowed my things. With nought to do but wait, and having chosen a roomette on the opposite side of the platform, I perused my grimoire and compared my progress to a month ago.

In a month I had managed to successfully translate my wandless magic to be used with a wand, though that had been remarkably simple considering the former was far more difficult. Learning the knockback jinx marked the first truly offensive spell in my arsenal, and my first spell technically from the dark arts, because although the fire-making charm could be used as such I had surmised it was poorly optimized for speed and accuracy in favour of raw fire-making potential, which made it good for fireplaces and less useful if I wanted to hit someone from across from the room.

That hadn’t taken too long either, most first-year spells only really needed one to memorize the words and the wand movement and the spell practically performed itself.

The general counter-spell, however, had been taking up my entire focus from dawn till dusk for nearly two straight weeks. It displayed a remarkable increase in difficulty because there was more at play with the spell than just the obvious, one's intent became an important factor in the act of spellcasting.

It had never really been fully explained in the books or the films, but there was more to magic than just shouting a spell and flicking one's wand. And as I learnt the counter-spell I finally understood that and also realised why it was that most witches and wizards simply couldn’t use wandless magic.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

When one cast a spell, they were, in effect, telling the wand what it was that they wanted it to do with their magic. The wand would then draw from the untamed magic in a wizard or witch's body, form that magic into a useful spell and release it.

Now with basic spells, the form could be incredibly obvious with the only variation being how powerful it should be, and the wand can determine that entirely on its own.

It was because of this simplicity that I had managed to cast so many wandless spells, my controlled anger acted as the wand for the purpose of taming my magic so that it might be used, the incantation and my intense focus could fill in for the wands ‘brain’ by turning that tamed magic into something useful.

I was fortunate in that I learned how to tame my magic before I got my hands on a wand because, without that particular skill, wandless magic was entirely impossible.

But with more advanced spells, the wand was no longer capable of doing everything on its own. It would still draw and tame the magic from the wizard and do its best to interpret the instructions sent to it, but it needed a more complete picture of the intended result that it would draw from the top of its wielder's mind.

The more focused one was on the final effect, the better able the wand was able to understand and comply. The stronger the connection between the wand and the wielder, the less focused one needed to be for the wand to get the picture. Anything that took the load off the wand would increase the likelihood of success of any given spell, such as taming one's own magic and following the proper form of the spell. Anything that did the opposite, like nonverbal casting or casting without proper wand movement, made it more likely to fail but was still possible if the wand was powerful enough, or the wizard skilful enough. The reason why some wands were considered more powerful than others was because they had a greater threshold of what they were capable of doing on their own.

Though I had yet to try any, I imagined even higher-level spells, like the Patronus charm, were far more difficult. Based on the context from the books the charm required not only a vivid picture of the positive emotions needed to ward off a dementor but a great scope of imagination and focus on that emotion and all its different aspects. I could see how it would be so difficult because one didn’t, and couldn’t, know what the precise form the spell would take nor the effect it would have on one's environment. Any deviation in one's thoughts, any modicum of fear or panic, and the wand could lose the picture and the spell would fail.

It explained why the most powerful wizards and witches could perform feats of magic beyond mere spells, transcending the need for standard forms and bending magic itself to their will. The duel between Voldemort and Dumbledore in the ministry of magic came to mind. So long as one has a strong enough image of precisely what it is they wish to happen and the experience to bring it into existence, an ironclad control over their own magic and a wand to match, there is nothing they cannot do. The very pinnacle of magic, which only a handful of wizards and witches had ever achieved, and one day, with little doubt in my mind, I would count myself amongst them.

This was all written in my NOT-book, an amalgamation of what I had read of magic theory, my knowledge from my previous life and my own personal experiences and hypotheses.

As to why I had chosen the general counter-spell of all the second-year spells to learn first, that was just because it seemed like it had the most utility, and by a vast margin. Enough that I had even skipped past several first-year spells I had yet to learn.

On another note, my experience with my wand so far had been… interesting. I learned quickly what Ollivander had meant when he said the phoenix feather gave the wand a mind of its own. It had, on occasion, misinterpreted what it was I wanted it to do or jumped to conclusions before I had properly formed the image in my mind. It was definitely still getting the feel for me, but more than that I sensed from it a certain wilful ignorance that made spellcasting at times far more difficult than it should have been.

I sensed it was still waiting for me to prove myself worthy of it, and casting some simple spells in my room at home had done nothing to accomplish that. But if, when, the day came that I finally did so and it finally worked with me rather than against me, I knew it would be a spectacularly potent tool indeed.

I was ripped from my ponderings when I finally noticed a girl standing awkwardly at the entrance of the roomette. I got the sense she had been there for some time and hadn’t had the good sense to clear her throat to draw my attention away from my notebooks.

“H… Hi, I… I’m Rebecca. R… Rebecca Keene.” She stuttered out, clearly shaking with nerves.

Looking over at her, it was a miserable sight. The girl was clearly a first year, looking as though she had put entirely too much effort into her appearance that nevertheless betrayed her muggle childhood, with her eyes cast down to the floor as she spoke. The journey to Hogwarts promised to be nearly nine hours and any hope of spending that time on my own went out the window as I found myself taking pity on her. I cursed my feelings, eleven years with a loving family had made me soft it seemed.

“I’m Victor, Victor Thorneheart, it is a pleasure to meet you,” I said, motioning with one hand at the seat opposite my own as I stored my grimoire back in my blazer pocket.

She very quickly moved to sit, as though I might have changed my mind and told her to leave if she hadn’t. The door slid shut behind her and she visibly sighed in relief.

“Are you alright?” I inquired, admittedly a little concerned she was having a panic attack or something similar.

Her hazel eyes flickered briefly to mine before she quickly looked away, staring intently out the window at a brick wall. Nodding, when she spoke again it was with markedly less stuttering than before, “This is all so… new to me. I don’t know what I should or shouldn’t be doing. I still can’t believe any of this is real.”

I smiled, knowing how she felt more than she could know. “Your parents are muggles aren’t they?” I asked, making sure to keep my tone friendly.

Her eyes widened and she briefly looked back at me. “Is it that obvious?”

I nodded. “It isn’t a bad thing, my father was the same, but most of the people here grew up surrounded by magic so it can be easy to pick out those who didn’t.”

“Did you? Grow up with magic I mean,” she asked.

“I did. My mother is from a centuries-old wizarding family called the Thornehearts. My dad took her last name when they married. I grew up in our estate in the middle of a magical forest in Scotland. If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them.” I explained, my pity once again getting the better of me near the end.

Her eyes lit up and she smiled for the first time, excitement getting the better of her nervousness. “Thank you! I wanted to ask the man who took me to Diagonally but I was too scared.”

Her words elicited a chuckle from me. “You mean Diagon alley. And this man, did he have dark robes, long black hair, a permanently grumpy look on his face?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, “do you know him?”

“I know of him. That is Professor Severus Snape, head of Slytherin house and the teacher of the potions class.” And a man for whom I hold immeasurable respect, though I left out that last part.

“Potions class? Is that like chemistry?” she asked with a confused look on her face.

“Not really. Potion making is sort of like cooking, but with magical ingredients to make, well, potions. Alchemy is a sort of magical chemistry, but we don’t learn about that in first year.” I explained.

Rebecca nodded along in understanding. “So, what other lessons do we have?”

“Well, there is charms, which is where we learn most of the spells we do. Transfiguration, where we learn to turn things into different things. Herbology, which is about magical plants. Astronomy, which is about the stars. History, which is, well, history. Potions, as I said. And finally, defence against the dark arts, which is rather self-explanatory. Did you not research any of this on your own?” I told her.

She looked somewhat sheepish at that. “My parents didn’t want me learning anything dangerous before I was in the care of ‘the professionals’.” She said with a modicum of disdain.

She paused for a moment. “Dark arts? Is that like evil magic?” she asked as a peculiar look came over her face.

“Not evil per se. Any magic that is used exclusively to harm others is classed as part of the ‘dark arts’, but for the most part the dark arts can be used for good just as much as they can be for evil.” I told her, which was my interpretation of it at least. Of course, there were some spells, like creating a Horcrux, that were purely evil and selfish acts, but that wasn’t indicative of the entire subsection of magic.

She seemed to stew with that information for a while. In the meantime, the train finally set off and left the station.

“So there haven’t been any really bad wizards?” she asked, looking concerned.

Ah. Here was a girl fresh to the wonders of magic and all its beauty and awe, and I had just backed myself into a corner to explain perhaps the single worst magic user in living memory. This was why I avoided talking to people.

“Unfortunately for everyone, there has,” I said, scratching my head as I tried to think of a way to put this kindly. “Witches and wizards are still human, and they can be both good and evil. But an individual extremely competent in magic poses a threat greater than any muggle individual can, and if they use their power for evil they can be incredibly difficult to stop. You’ll probably hear this come up a lot, so I might as well tell you now. There was, up until only ten or so years ago, a war against a particularly evil and powerful wizard, he-who-shall-not-be-named. Lots of people died, including my grandparents, but in the end, he was stopped when he tried to kill a baby by the name of Harry Potter, only for something to go wrong causing him to disappear from the face of the earth.”

I was well aware of the taboo jinx on Voldemort’s name and had no intention of uttering it aloud any time in the near future, lest his maniacal followers learn of my existence, even if they might not know who I was.

Rebecca frowned and ran her hands through her long straw blonde hair in a way I determined to be some sort of nervous tick. “Is he dead? He-who-shall-not-be-named or whatever?”

I winced again. Great work Victor, now you are going to give the poor girl nightmares. My urge to protect her innocence on the matter waged against my desire to tell the truth and lost. I had always believed ignorance was the most damaging thing one could impart upon another person, because if a person was unaware of something, how could they possibly act appropriately towards it?

“Officially, yes. However, there are some who are worried he may yet return. I wouldn’t go spreading that last bit around though. There’s no point in worrying about it now however, headmaster Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard there is and Hogwarts is the safest place in the world. Not even he-who-shall-not-be-named would dare attack it with the headmaster there.” I tried to soften the blow but I could tell by the look on her face that she was scared, slowly realising this amazing world she found herself in had dark and ugly corners too.

“I’m sorry.” She said, confusing me. Turning her head, she finally looked into my eyes and held the gaze. “About your grandparents. What were they like?”

I was surprised at her sudden change of tone and cast my mind back to when I was younger to answer her question. “I was pretty young at the time, but I remember grandmother was a kind woman, she loved tending to the roses in our garden and spoiling me and my baby sister. Grandfather was… a character to say the least. He didn’t much like my father, mostly because of his muggle parents, and I remember them arguing a lot. But he was a good man deep down, I remember him finding me in our forest, carrying me back to our home and healing me when I had broken my ankle tripping over an exposed root. I think he always wanted to be a healer, but his own father had forced him down a different path and made him somewhat miserable.”

The memory of their bodies briefly flashed in my mind, motionless and pale but with no obvious wounds as they had lain just before the front gate, having died protecting their home and family. Father had tried to shield me from them, but he had been too busy worrying over mother to pay much attention. It made me sad to think that they could have still been alive today, and I might have gotten to know them so much better.

Rebecca waited patiently as I had my little moment, which I mentally thanked her for. When my attention finally snapped back to the girl opposite me, she had yet another question on her lips.

“Is that common? People hating on witches and wizards with muggle parents?” she asked.

Fuck. Yet another slip of the tongue. If only I’d turned her away then I wouldn’t be tearing apart her perfectly innocent image of the wizarding world piece by piece.

“Unfortunately, yes. It is especially common in those from the old wizarding houses considered ‘pure-blooded’, meaning they have no recorded muggle ancestors. It is also widespread within Slytherin house at Hogwarts. But for every bigoted witch or wizard, there is another more than happy to welcome you to the wizarding community. I’m considered a half-blood, as only some of my ancestors are muggles, and the word used for people like you, almost exclusively as a slur, is mud-blooded, or the more polite ‘muggle-born’. Do your best not to take it to heart, anyone that looks down on you and anyone like you doesn’t deserve your time.” I explained, trying to be as supportive as I could to the obviously and increasingly upset girl.

Before any more questions could be asked, the door opened revealing the trolley lady and her hoard of chocolates and sweets. “Would you like anything from the trolley my dears?”

I reached into my pocket and felt the galleons my father had given me for this precise occasion. “We’ll take one of everything,” I told her. I’d never had much of a sweet tooth, but I hoped the animated chocolate frogs would prove an adequate distraction for my distressed travelling companion.

Fortunately, that seemed to be exactly the case. I explained to her each of the magical confectionaries and the light in her eyes seemed to return. We shared some of the every-flavour beans, and I couldn’t help but scrunch up in utter revulsion when I tasted a sick-flavoured bean, much to the amusement of Rebecca.

The rest of the journey was spent in more pleasant conversation as I told her some more about magic and all the fantastic beasts of the wizarding world, though I couldn’t say precisely where one might find them. We talked about our families, about her accountant father and fashion designer mother, about her younger and muggle brother as well as my own little sister. She told me about her journey to Diagon alley with Snape, her experience at Ollivander's shop and her wand, 10 inches of rigid blackthorn wood with a unicorn hair core.

I showed her my own, though she did not ask what the different parts of a wand meant and I did not offer up information on my own. Some things felt too private to share with what was essentially a stranger.

But nine hours was a long time, and there was little else to do but talk. There were, mercifully, moments when she was content with just reading her school materials, but that inevitably ended in more questions that would be too awkward not to answer. I ended up showing her a few spells and tutoring her through her first casting of the wand-lighting charm as well. Otherwise, we just spent the time getting to know one another and remarking on the scenery outside.

Despite her initial nervousness, once she felt comfortable around me I discovered she was an intelligent and inquisitive young woman, and somewhat surprisingly, remarkably stubborn when she wanted to be. The moment I had properly explained the school houses to her, echoing most of what professor McGonagall would be telling us once we arrived, she without hesitation proclaimed she would be sorted into Gryffindor. I tried to explain to her that she couldn’t choose which house she’d be sorted into but she completely ignored me and insisted she would be. What I knew of her was not enough to predict either way, so I eventually let the matter drop, conceding it was exceedingly possible that she would be.

Around that time, the Scottish landscape outside our window had begun to darken, and not too much later the train finally came to a stop at Hogsmeade station just as the final light of dusk could be seen in the sky above.

We’d finally arrived. Hogwarts castle now only a short walk and boat ride away, and within it was everything I had ever dreamed of. Rebecca and I shared an excitable look before exiting the train together as we awaited Hagrid’s call.