In the end, it wasn't a dark wizard, a speeding truck, or even taxes that killed Viktor.
It was popcorn.
He'd just reached the climactic duel in Deathly Hallows: Part 2 during his 47th rewatch marathon. As Harry shouted "PROTEGO!" on-screen, Viktor echoed it, a triumphant bellow swallowed by a mouthful of caramel corn.
Big mistake.
A cough became a choke. His limbs flailed, tangling in a mess of blankets and wizard merch. The soda, an already precarious tower on his bedside table, toppled with a sickening thud. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision, the taste of sticky sweetness replaced by a desperate, burning ache. His last thought, oddly clear amidst the panic, was:
"Wait—this is so on-brand it's actually embarrassing—"
Then, nothing.
When he opened his eyes, he didn't see Saint Potter welcoming him into a pearly white afterlife. Instead, a lavish ceiling bloomed above him, constellations of silver and gold shimmering into and out of existence like whispered secrets. His body felt alien—smaller, softer, a strange lightness in his limbs.
Confused, he tried to sit up, but his muscles simply wouldn't obey. A giant, impossibly large hand reached down, enveloping him. Panic flared. He wanted to run, to scream for help, but his mouth opened and what came out was a pathetic, gurgling cry. The woman holding him, a blurry, comforting presence, cooed and tried to shush him.
That's when the realization, cold and undeniable, slammed into him.
He was a baby.
Oh no. Oh yes? Wait—did I just get isekai'ed? The thought, a frantic ping-pong match in his suddenly tiny brain, was immediately followed by a wave of internal screaming. This couldn't be real.
The door creaked open, admitting a tall, stern man framed by the light, his emerald green robes a vivid splash against the opulent room.
"Is it a boy!" the man boomed, his voice thick with a distinct Russian accent that vibrated through Viktor's tiny chest. "Let me look at you, boy! Tonight we celebrate!"
"What did you decide to name him?" asked the woman, who Viktor now vaguely registered as being dressed like a nurse.
"Viktor! We will name him Viktor Ivanov," the woman holding him—his mother, he grudgingly accepted—chimed in, her voice surprisingly soft.
A year bled into another, each day a slow, agonizing crawl for Viktor. Being a baby was boring. Utterly, soul-crushingly boring. He lay there, a captive audience to his own babbling, his once-sharp mind dulled by the relentless monotony of infant life.
Then, a flurry of activity. The door swung open, revealing a man draped in a regal black and green gown, his stride purposeful. Behind him, a woman followed, her fur-lined cloak rustling, high heels clicking out a Morse code of "drama" on the polished floors. They were… his parents.
"Viktor, darling, say Mama!" Natasha cooed, her accent a thick, syrupy embrace.
"No, say Daddy," Alexi coaxed, a competitive glint in his eye.
Viktor, a spark of mischief igniting in his infant mind, gurgled, "…Vodka?"
Natasha clapped her hands, a joyful sound. "Oh, he's perfect!"
It took time. So much time. Bedtime stories read in hushed Russian tones, awkward questions about strange-looking family portraits, the astonishing discovery of the Daily Prophet newspaper, its magical photographs wriggling. And then, one overheard article about Albus Dumbledore's latest educational reform, delivered by a house-elf to his father's study. That was it. The final, undeniable confirmation.
He was in the Harry Potter universe.
His full name was now Viktor Ivanov, son of a Russian wizarding diplomat and a potion-brewing fashion icon. They had just moved to England for "Magical Relations"—whatever that meant.
Viktor was now five years old. He had inherited his mother's sharp cheekbones, his father's dark, almost black hair, and the faint, unsettling aura of someone who might get invited to a dark ritual by accident.
The good news? No one had heard of Voldemort. Not a whisper. Maybe this was one of those parallel universes where he never rose to power.
Even if he did, Viktor had time. He could prepare. He could use his knowledge, his almost unfair advantage, to win at life. To survive. To thrive.
Then it happened.
Ding!
A soft chime, almost imperceptible to anyone else, sounded in his mind. A glowing interface, sharp and crystalline, suddenly appeared in the corner of his vision like a floating fantasy HUD. It glowed with a message:
[Welcome, Host.]
You have been Reincarnated Into the Harry Potter universe!
Your system will help you Survive, thrive, and maybe look cool doing it.
Quests, skills, and magical knowledge await.
"Oh my god," Viktor whispered, his small hands trembling, his breath catching in his throat. "It's real. I have a SYSTEM."
He didn't know whether to laugh hysterically, cry with relief, or scream "Level 99 or die trying!" into the sudden silence of his room.
A wave of frustration washed over him. All his life, in this new life, he had been trying to do something magical. Anything. He'd strained, he'd wished, he'd even tried to subtly steal his mother's wand to cast a simple Lumos. To no avail. No accidental magic. He was worried, truly worried, he was a squib.
He instinctively thought, Status, like any MC he'd ever read about. Nothing. The glowing interface remained, stubbornly static. He blinked, tried again. Still nothing. Fine. He opened his quest window.
[Daily Quest]
Run 1 km
Do 10 pushups
Do 10 sit ups
Do 10 dig ups.
—
Rewards: Constitution Potion.
—
"What is the constitution potion?" he asked aloud, his voice small, a hopeful tremor in it.
No answer. The system remained silent, the glowing text unwavering.
Disappointment, sharp and sudden, pierced through him. He'd assumed the system would grant him instant magical abilities, dazzling spells, a path to immediate power! But no, it was demanding… stupid workouts. Mundane, pointless exercises.
He looked around. The quest tab was the only thing he could see. Since he had nothing better to do, a stubborn resolve settled in his chest. He would do it.
First up, pushups, he decided.
He assumed the position, lowering himself down. His muscles, soft and undeveloped, quivered. He pushed. And pushed. But sadly, he couldn't manage to push himself up. He tried again, gritting his teeth, his small face red with effort. Nothing.
"Figures. I was never into sports," he sighed, collapsing onto the carpet.
He got up, brushing imaginary dust from his pajamas. He'd get Radimer, the house-elf. He never liked Radimer, finding the stern, gaunt elf genuinely scary. That was one house-elf no one was ever going to bully; he looked like a veteran who had seen far too much bloodshed.
Instead of calling him, he decided to run around the mansion looking for him. He had to do a 1km run, after all.
The Ivanov Mansion, though recently acquired by the newly arrived Russian pureblood family, bore the weight of centuries as if it had been bodily transported from some ancient, snow-laden forest. Its dark stone walls, crowned with spires and turrets, seemed to absorb the dim British light, giving it an almost spectral presence. Intricately carved gargoyles with leering faces and bat-like wings perched on every available ledge, their stone eyes appearing to track unseen movements across the grounds.
A winding, overgrown drive, bordered by ancient, gnarled yew trees that whispered secrets in the wind, led to formidable wrought-iron gates. These gates were not merely decorative; their bear-like motifs seemed to writhe with a faint, violet magical pulse, hinting at the powerful wards protecting the property. The grand front door, a massive slab of unpolished, dark oak studded with iron, had no visible handle. Instead, a complex array of pulsating magical symbols required a specific, ancient incantation for entry.
Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of old parchment, stale magic, and a curious, faint metallic tang. The cavernous hall was lined with tapestries depicting generations of unsmiling Ivanov ancestors, their eyes seemingly following any who dared to trespass. Suits of ancient, enchanted armor stood sentinel in shadowed alcoves, their gauntlets occasionally twitching as if still poised for battle. The pervasive atmosphere spoke of long-held power and a distinctly Russian brand of pureblood grandeur, solidified by the giant Serbian Tiger emblazoned on their family crest, a symbol repeated subtly throughout the mansion's decor.
The grounds were a stark contrast to typical British estates. Beyond the immediate vicinity of the house, a sprawling, untamed garden grew, not for beauty, but for purpose. This was Natasha Ivanov's domain, a botanical labyrinth where she cultivated the potent, often volatile, plants essential for her potions. A wrong step here could lead to a very bad time indeed. Even more daunting was the Ivanov family zoo, a place Alexi Ivanov, with a peculiar sense of humor, referred to as home to his "cute pets." These were anything but. The grounds housed gigantic, magical Serbian Tigers, sleek panthers, and grotesque, tentacled, crocodile-like creatures that made venturing too close a suicidal endeavor. One would have to be mad to enter unless they fancied becoming a beast's next meal or, worse.
Viktor, huffing and puffing, yelled "Sorry!" to the stern pictures of his ancestors as they seemed to chide him in Russian not to run in the mansion.
He burst through a side door and into the grounds, the cool air a welcome shock. He gave his mother's garden a wide berth, despite knowing he couldn't get in there even if he tried, the air around it thrumming with contained magic. He also instinctively avoided his father's menacing zoo. Just as his legs were burning and his breath came in ragged gasps, the system chimed in.
[1km run complete]
"Let's rest. Rest is good for the body, especially for a little boy," Viktor decided, collapsing onto a patch of surprisingly soft grass.
After a while, the looming presence of the remaining quests weighed on him. He couldn't avoid it anymore. He called out, "Radimer!" Immediately, with a soft pop, the house-elf appeared.
Radimer stood as a monument to discipline. His body was a rigid, upright column, honed by decades of service into a lean, almost gaunt silhouette. Every movement was precise, economical, as if he'd eradicated any unnecessary flourish from his physical being. His eyes, the color of gunmetal, were set deep beneath a perpetually furrowed brow, and they missed nothing. They held a cold, unwavering intensity that could assess a threat or a man's character in a single, chilling glance.
"How can Radimer help the young master?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
"I want you to help me do push-ups," Viktor asked, trying to sound confident.
"What is a push-up?"
After a bit of explaining, complete with Viktor attempting a demonstration that mostly involved face-planting, the elf seemed to understand. "Ahh, the young master wants to increase his strength? Understandable. How many of these 'push-ups' are you going to do?"
"Ten," he answered, pushing down the odd feeling that something was very, very wrong with this scenario.
"Alright, let's do it!" Radimer demanded, his voice suddenly sharp, leaving no room for argument.
As Viktor, with immense effort, began his first push-up, Radimer stood aside, watching with those unblinking gunmetal eyes. When Viktor found it impossible to push himself up, the elf's hand appeared at his chest, a flicker of magic, and gently, impossibly, helped him rise. The elf never helped too much, just the right amount to make it excruciatingly difficult, a constant battle against his own weakness.
After five agonizing push-ups, Viktor's arms gave out completely. He decided to stop, collapsing in a panting heap. But the elf, a statue of unwavering resolve, commanded him.
"But I am tired! I am not doing it anymore!" Viktor wailed, tears pricking at his eyes.
"Radimer believes in the young master," the elf said, his voice as steely and unyielding as ever.
After a desperate cycle of begging, crying, and arguing, punctuated by Radimer's unwavering demands and subtle magical assistance, Viktor managed the remaining five push-ups. Each one felt like lifting a mountain.
[10 push ups complete] the system chimed, a triumphant little tune.
Viktor remained sprawled in the grass, utterly spent, his muscles screaming in protest.
After a bit of rest, a short, blissful reprieve, he decided to tackle the sit-ups. The elf, naturally, remained, watching his every strained movement.
Radimer never allowed him to cheat, never allowed a sloppy form. Every single workout had to be up to his impossibly high standard.
[10 sit ups complete]
[daily quest complete]
[reward generated would you like to extract the constitution potion now?]
NO, he thought, a clear, decisive refusal. The system screen, obedient, disappeared.
Viktor, barely able to move, told the elf to draw him a bath. After a slow, careful walk back to the mansion, he went to his private bathroom. The warm water was a blissful balm on his aching limbs.
System, extract, he commanded silently.
A small, amber-colored vial, filled with a viscous, shimmering liquid, appeared in his hand.
[Constitution Potion]
Taken once a day. Improves the constitution of the user slowly. Must be taken for a month to show noticeable changes.
Without hesitation, Viktor uncorked the vial and downed the potion in one gulp. It tasted faintly of earth and sunlight, leaving a curious warmth spreading through his exhausted body.