Prologue

James leaned heavily against the worn wooden bar, nursing his fifth—or was it his sixth?—pint of the night. The pub was a dingy little hole-in-the-wall, the kind of place where people went to be alone with their thoughts, and tonight, that’s exactly what James needed. The dim lighting and muted chatter provided a backdrop for his internal monologue, one that had become increasingly bitter as the alcohol took hold.

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the other absently tracing the outline of the Harry Potter tattoo on his forearm. The tattoo, a simple yet elegant depiction of the Deathly Hallows symbol intertwined with the phrase "Mischief Managed," had been a symbol of his devotion to a world far more interesting than his own. Harry Potter had been his escape for as long as he could remember. The magic, the adventure, the sense of belonging in a world where everything made sense—unlike his own life.

His life had become a monotonous routine of work, sleep, and the occasional night out, like tonight, where he tried to forget the emptiness of it all. His job was dull, his relationships were shallow, and the spark that had once fueled his ambitions had long since flickered out. He had dreamed of a life full of meaning and purpose, but reality had a way of beating those dreams out of you, one bill at a time.

As he stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, he couldn’t help but think about how far he had strayed from the person he had once wanted to be. The boy who had stayed up late reading under the covers, imagining himself casting spells and saving the day, was long gone. In his place was a man who had settled for mediocrity, who had stopped believing in magic long ago.

“Nice ink,” came a voice from beside him, pulling him out of his thoughts. James turned to see a man sitting next to him, nursing a drink of his own. The man was older, with a well-trimmed beard and a pair of eyes that seemed to twinkle with amusement. “Harry Potter fan, I take it?”

James nodded, feeling a twinge of pride despite himself. “Yeah. Got this a few years back. Symbolizes a lot, you know? The books… they were more than just stories to me.”

The man chuckled, swirling his drink. “Oh, I can tell. So, what brings you here, wallowing in what seems to be a pit of despair?”

James sighed, taking another swig of his pint. “Just the usual. Life not turning out the way you thought it would. Reality’s a bitch, you know? And it doesn’t help that the world I fell in love with, the one in those books, is so… incompetent. I mean, seriously, how could so many smart people be so stupid?”

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Oh? Do tell.”

James didn’t need much prompting. The alcohol had loosened his tongue, and soon he was off on a rant about all the things that bothered him about the wizarding world. He talked about how the Ministry of Magic was a mess, how they allowed people like Fudge to run the show, and how Dumbledore, for all his wisdom, made some incredibly foolish decisions. He ranted about the lack of proper security measures, the way the Death Eaters were allowed to terrorize people unchecked, and how Rufus Scrimgeour, in particular, was a coward who could have done so much more if he hadn’t been so paranoid and short-sighted.

“I mean, for fuck’s sake,” James exclaimed, slamming his pint down on the bar. “How do you have a society that’s been around for centuries, full of magic, and yet they can’t figure out basic shit like mind control defenses or putting Sirius Black on trial? It’s insane! And don’t even get me started on how they handle Voldemort. Half the time it’s like they’re begging to be taken over.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

The man listened patiently, a small smile playing on his lips as James continued to vent. When James finally paused to catch his breath, the man leaned in a little closer. “You know, James, what if I told you that you could change all that? That you could step into that world and make it better?”

James snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

“I’m serious,” the man insisted. “What if you had the chance to go there, to really make a difference? Would you take it?”

James looked at him, trying to gauge whether or not he was serious. But the man’s expression was impossible to read, a mixture of amusement and something else that James couldn’t quite place. “Look, mate, I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but even if that were possible, why the hell would you pick me? I’m just a guy with a boring job and a Harry Potter tattoo.”

The man chuckled again, a deep, rich sound that seemed to reverberate through the bar. “Sometimes, the right person for the job is the one who sees the problems others overlook. And you, my friend, have seen quite a few.”

James stared at the man, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. This had to be a joke, right? Some kind of prank or a trick played on him by his friends. But as he opened his mouth to say something, the man’s expression grew serious.

“I’m giving you a choice, James. You can go back to your mundane life, full of frustrations and missed opportunities, or you can step into a world that needs someone like you. Someone who can make a real difference. The choice is yours.”

James blinked, his head spinning. This couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t. But the man’s words echoed in his mind, each one resonating with the part of him that had always longed for something more. He glanced down at his tattoo, the symbol of everything he had ever wanted. “And what… what would I have to do?”

“Simple,” the man said, a sly smile creeping across his face. “You just have to agree. That’s it.”

James laughed, a bitter sound that held no real humor. “Fine. Whatever. I agree. Just get me out of this shithole of a life.”

The man’s smile widened, and for a brief moment, his eyes seemed to glow with an otherworldly light. “Done.”

Before James could react, the world around him seemed to shift and blur. A rush of memories, thoughts, and emotions flooded his mind, overwhelming him in an instant. He felt himself being pulled in a thousand different directions, each one more disorienting than the last. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

James found himself standing in a grand office, the likes of which he had only ever seen in movies. Rich mahogany furniture, deep green carpets, and walls lined with portraits that seemed to watch his every move. He looked down at his hands—except they weren’t his hands. They were older, more worn, with a strength that his own hands had never possessed.

He stumbled backward, his mind reeling as the memories continued to flood in. Memories of a life that wasn’t his, of battles fought and decisions made in the shadows of a world he had only ever dreamed about. And then, it hit him like a sledgehammer.

He was Rufus Scrimgeour.

“No… no, no, no!” James—Rufus—scrambled to make sense of it all, but the memories were relentless, forcing their way into his consciousness, leaving no room for denial. He was no longer James, the disillusioned fan with a mundane life. He was Rufus Scrimgeour, the current Head of British Auror Office and the future minister for magic

His knees gave out, and he collapsed onto the plush carpet, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. This couldn’t be happening. It just couldn’t. But as he looked around the office, taking in the weight of what he had become, a strange sense of calm began to settle over him.

This was real. It had to be. And that meant he had a chance to do everything he had ever dreamed of. To fix the mistakes, to right the wrongs, to make the wizarding world everything it could be.

But first, he had to stop freaking out.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his—Rufus’s—hair. “I… I need a drink.”