There was something impossibly old and sacred about a forest at dawn.
Golden shafts of light drifted lazily through the canopy, the trees breathing in harmony with the stillness. Birds chirped sleepy songs, and somewhere in the distance, a stream whispered secrets to the mossy stones.
Myrddin Wyllt awoke to this gentle silence.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking up at the wooden ceiling above him. The beams were thick, hand-hewn, and faintly fragrant with sap. He sat up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders, and took in the room—a single, modest cabin with a hearth, a basin, a window open to the morning. Everything smelled faintly of pine, woodsmoke, and lavender.
He should have been alarmed. But he wasn't.
In fact, the calm inside him felt strange. Not detached, but steady. As if something deep in him knew this was right, even though nothing made sense.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood barefoot on the warm wooden floor. His body felt light and strong, though unfamiliar. When he stepped in front of the mirror mounted over a washbasin, he froze
The face that greeted him was not his own—at least, not the one he remembered. He was a boy now. He looked then, maybe eleven. His skin was a smooth, sun-warmed brown, the shade of ripe hazelnuts. His black hair was thick and unruly, catching the light in tangled waves. But it was his eyes that held him still—green, vibrant, and edged with golden flecks, like leaves bursting through winter's last frost.
He stared at himself in silence.
He remembered... something. A different life. The hum of city streets. The harsh glow of computer screens. The feel of worn pages beneath his fingertips. Books. So many books.
And a story.
Something about magic. A castle. A boy with a scar.
But the details danced just out of reach, blurred like dreams after waking. He tried to remember his name, but it slipped through his mind like water through cupped hands. The only name that came clearly was the one that pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat:
Myrddin Wyllt.
The name felt old. Heavy. Important.
It tugged at him with frustrating familiarity—like something he had read once, in a book he couldn't quite remember. It wasn't his name, was it? Not before. But now, it was the only name that felt real.
He turned away from the mirror, unsettled but oddly unbothered. There was a warmth running through him—like some unknown liquid had filled his veins, humming with soft, energy. Not frightening. Not overwhelming. Just… present. Like a new heartbeat.
He stepped toward the cabin door, drawn by the sound of the forest.
When he opened it, the morning hit him like a song.
The trees stood tall and proud, green giants swaying gently in the breeze. Ferns blanketed the earth, and the air smelled of pine, moss, and wildflowers. Birds darted between branches, and sunlight danced on the surface of a nearby stream. The earth beneath his bare feet was cool and comforting.
It felt like coming home.
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Far away, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Professor Minerva McGonagall sat in her study with a thick, enchanted book open before her. Its pages, yellowed and delicate, turned with a life of their own, revealing the names of young witches and wizards due to turn eleven this year.
Most names were expected—familiar surnames passed down through magical families, or the occasional surprising spark from a Muggle-born.
She flipped the page. "Harry Potter," she read softly.
Her expression darkened.
She had not forgotten. The baby boy left in the care of those awful Muggles. She had seen the tight-lipped way Petunia Dursley had glared at the infant, as though ashamed of his very existence. It had broken something in her.
Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her tea. She had visited the Dursleys once, just after Hagrid had left the child on their doorstep. That cold November night haunted her even now. A cupboard under the stairs—who could imagine raising a child that way?
Still, Albus had insisted on the blood wards. On the safety it would give the boy.
Minerva pursed her lips and began writing the address: Number Four, Privet Drive.
Then, as she turned to the next name, her quill stilled.
Myrddin Wyllt.
She stared at it.
Her brow furrowed.
The name... it struck a chord somewhere in the back of her mind. It was familiar, yes, but in a foggy, uncertain way. Like hearing a melody long forgotten, or spotting a face in a dream. Not a student she'd taught. Not anyone she'd met, she was certain.
"Myrddin…" she whispered.
Where had she heard that?
She reached for her wand and cast a gentle tracing charm—one designed to pull up records of magical families or known magical persons.
Nothing surfaced.
The only detail offered by the enchanted book was a vague location: Cabin in the Woods. Near Godric's Hollow.
Her eyes narrowed. That in itself was odd. Most magical children were tagged to a precise location. Even the most obscure areas registered on the Hogwarts book. But this one… It was as if the forest itself had chosen not to give the boy up.
Minerva rubbed the bridge of her nose.
She didn't know the name. Not truly. But she felt something about it. A weight. A memory that refused to rise to the surface.
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The forest opened before him like a vast, green cathedral. Sunlight spilled through the leaves, dappling the mossy earth. The air was filled with the scent of pine needles, damp earth, and the sweet perfume of unseen flowers.
He felt it in his bones—that strange current of warmth, a liquid light pulsing in his blood. It was as if the forest itself welcomed him, recognized him.
He knew, somehow, how to listen to it.
He knelt and touched the soil, whispering something he didn't know he knew.
He whispered a few words—not in English, not even in Latin, but a language that echoed like thunder and breeze in the same breath. The grass shifted beneath his fingertips, bending toward him as if in greeting.
And the leaves moved.
Not with the wind. Not randomly.
They answered.
He gasped, wide-eyed, and drew his hand back.
What had he just done?
That night, a tawny owl landed on the windowsill.
It ruffled its feathers, tapped the glass once, and waited. Myrddin opened the window and stared at the bird with wary curiosity. In its beak was a letter, sealed with wax bearing an ornate crest:
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
He reached out and took it slowly. The owl gave a polite hoot and soared away into the trees.
He cracked the seal.
"Dear Mr. Wyllt, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…"
He read the letter twice. Then again.
Hogwarts.
That name. It rang through him like a bell. Not just familiar—personal.
He closed his eyes, clutching the parchment.
Bits and pieces clicked together. The books. The movies. He had read about this place—no, watched it too. It had been fiction. He had known it was fiction.
Hadn't he?
But if Hogwarts was real… then this was real.
The forest. The owl. The magic in his blood.
He sat down hard on the bed, heart pounding in his chest.
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Back at Hogwarts, Professor McGonagall stood in her window, staring into the darkening sky.
The owl bearing Myrddin Wyllt's letter had vanished into the wind, but the name still echoed in her mind.
Why did it feel so heavy? So... ancient?
She turned toward the fireplace, her thoughts unsettled.
She had a feeling—one she couldn't quite explain—that the arrival of this strange boy in the forest near Godric's Hollow would be just as important as the return of the Boy Who Lived.
She just didn't know why.
Not yet.