If there's one thing anime never prepared me for, it was dying while holding a bento box.
You'd think, for someone who'd watched over two hundred isekai shows—from Truck-kun specials to falling-into-a-game tropes—I'd have been more mentally equipped. Maybe even ready with a cool line. Instead, all I managed was a startled, "Huh?"
And then—nothing. Not even the classic white void.
*Flashback*
It was just an ordinary Tuesday, or so I thought. Third period algebra, cafeteria lunch with my usual façade in place: the perfect student. Straight-A's, polite smiles, always helpful, always predictable.
Nobody knew that the phone case tucked inside my blazer pocket had custom Sailor Moon stickers underneath a fake Louis Vuitton overlay. Or that my locker, hidden behind a secret latch, had a miniature Hogwarts diorama I'd 3D printed myself. Or that the earbud in my left ear—always hidden beneath a waterfall of black hair—was currently piping in the dramatic soundtrack from Final Fantasy IX.
No one knew because no one asked.
I was Rei Akiyama. Age: 16. Status: Perfectly invisible in plain sight.
The moment of death? Honestly, it was a blur. Slippery tiles. A misstep in the school's new science lab building. My foot catching on the edge of an electrical cable. Bento flying, heart skipping, the sensation of air rushing past me—then, pain. Blinding. Shattering.
Then… dark.
Then…
Light.
*End Flashback*
I gasped.
The air smelled weird—older, dustier, and definitely more owl-y. Like the inside of a Victorian bookstore that hadn't been dusted since Dumbledore's teenage years.
I sat up abruptly, blinking as heavy drapes filtered soft morning sunlight through the window. The room was strange—an old wooden four-poster bed, shelves crammed with ancient books, and parchment scrolls rolled into jars.
I wasn't home. Or in a hospital. Or in a dream.
A mirror caught my eye across the room, and I froze.
That wasn't my face.
I stumbled out of the bed, bare feet landing on cold wooden floor, and staggered toward it.
The reflection showed a girl—eleven, maybe? Pale skin, ink-black hair with a long stripe of white above the temple, and startling storm-grey eyes that looked too alert for someone who just woke up. She wore flannel pajamas too big for her frame and a confused expression that mirrored mine exactly.
"Oh my god," I whispered. My voice was higher, British-accented. Younger.
"What the hell?"
A soft knock startled me.
The door creaked open and a woman peeked in—tall, with sharp cheekbones, salt-and-pepper hair tied in a neat bun, and a lab coat over a wool sweater.
"Muffin? You're awake early."
She smiled in a warm, distracted way—the kind scientists give when they're mid-experiment but still fond of their pet project.
"I was just about to calibrate the microwave's electromagnetic flux—I'll bring breakfast in a moment. Anything you feel like?"
"…Who are you?" I asked before I could stop myself.
She blinked, eyebrows lifting. "Still playing that memory game, are we? I told your father reading The Metaphysical Mindscape of Magical Memory before bed would mess with your dreams."
She gave a gentle laugh, then came over and kissed the top of my head.
"I'm your mother, silly goose. Amelia Grimhart. And you are Reina. Reina Elaine Grimhart, age eleven and a half. Born in Oxford. Half-magic, half-Muggle, all mine."
She winked, turned, and walked out, mumbling something about chronomagnetic waves and tea.
I stared at the door for ten whole seconds.
Then I sat back down on the bed, buried my head in my hands, and whispered, "Okay. Okay. Isekai rules. Check your status. Assess environment. Internal monologue at max."
My thoughts raced.
Rei Akiyama was dead.
This is the Harry Potter universe.
I'm in the body of Reina Grimhart.
This is at least three years before Hogwarts.
And I'm a half-blood.
Somewhere in my soul, a tiny version of myself was doing the Kirito sword pose.
But the more practical part of me—the one that'd written entire reddit theories about magical loopholes—was already cataloging the differences.
"Grimhart" wasn't a canon name I recognized. Maybe this was an AU? Or maybe J.K. just never mentioned every half-blood family. The house was magical but blended with modern touches. Microwave, radio, and... an enchanted teapot?
And that wasn't even the weirdest part.
When I stared at my own reflection again, something shifted in the mirror. Just for a second. A shimmer, like a filter of static. My face—Reina's—warped into something else.
For the briefest flicker, it looked like—
No. That couldn't be.
I blinked hard. The image was gone.
Later that evening, while rummaging through an old sketchbook tucked in a drawer, I found something odd.
The pages were filled with drawings—not mine, but Reina's. And not just any drawings. Stylized, detailed, expressive masks. Some looked tribal. Others looked like… characters?
Was that Kakashi? No, couldn't be.
But the line work. The intent behind it. It felt familiar.
Something buzzed at the tips of my fingers as I touched the edge of one sketch—a fox-like mask with swirling lines around the eyes.
A jolt of energy zipped through my arm.
I yanked my hand back and the page quivered slightly, as if reacting to me.
My heart pounded.
That night, as I lay beneath old patchwork blankets, staring at the ceiling, I whispered to myself without thinking:
"In the name of the moon… I'll punish you."
I hadn't meant to say it. It slipped out like breath.
The mirror in the corner shimmered faintly.
I rolled over and squeezed my eyes shut.
I didn't sleep much that night.
Every time I drifted off, I'd see flickers—strange, fragmented dreams. Faces half-drawn. Eyes glowing through porcelain slits. A thousand voices whispering different names in different languages, each one mine and not mine.
I woke up with the sketchbook clutched to my chest.
I didn't tell my parents. Not yet.
Dad—Thaddeus Grimhart—was the sort of Ministry clerk who alphabetized his socks and treated minor policy changes like gospel. He worked in the Department of Magical Transportation, and the most exciting thing he ever did was test a prototype for non-spinning Floo landings.
Mum, brilliant though she was, didn't "get" magic. She thought of it like chemistry: predictable if you controlled the variables. She once made a toaster that sang opera when you used dragon scales as filament.
No way they were ready for what was happening with me.
I tested the page again in secret. The same Naruto-style fox mask.
Each time I brushed my fingers over the lines, they shimmered—like a page waiting to be activated.
After some internal debate (and a Sailor Moon transformation sequence in the mirror to hype myself up), I tried something risky.
I pulled out my old art kit—Reina's art kit now—and traced the sketch onto a thick piece of parchment. I added some details: the familiar orange swirls of Uzumaki-style energy, the glint in the eyes, the subtle whisker marks.
Then, I whispered:
"Make-believe, be real."
It wasn't an incantation from any known spellbook. It was mine.
The parchment glowed. And then—poof—the paper curled into a 3D porcelain-white mask, edges steaming, pulsing with subtle chakra-blue light.
I nearly screamed.
I stared at the mask for a long time before daring to touch it.
It was warm. And somehow… eager.
My fingers slipped beneath the chin of the mask, lifted it to my face.
The moment it clicked into place, I felt it—power. Not just magic, but something else. Something borrowed. Something shaped by my love for the character.
I staggered back, heart pounding.
And then—
Boom.
A flash of light. Smoke.
When it cleared… there were two of me.
I shrieked. She shrieked. We shrieked.
She looked just like me—same wide eyes, same pajamas, same stunned look. Then she blinked, grinned, and said:
"Yo. You pulled off a Shadow Clone. Not bad, dattebayo."
I fell over.
Turns out, Shadow Clones don't last long unless they're stabilized.
My clone managed to eat an entire jar of Nutella, spill Mum's experimental glowing jam across the ceiling, and almost got caught by Dad on his way to the loo before she fizzled out with a pop.
When she vanished, I felt a tug—like her thoughts pulling back into me. It wasn't just her memories.
It was… me. Echoed back.
And Naruto. A sliver of him, bleeding into my thoughts. Confidence. Recklessness. A deep yearning to be acknowledged.
I sat there shaking for half an hour.
This wasn't normal wandless magic.
This was something… else.
"You've been acting off," Mum said later over toast.
I tensed. "Just... tired."
She raised a brow. "Your aura's spiking at night. You're not accidentally triggering puberty-based surges, are you? Or reading those American comics again?"
"…No more than usual?"
She gave a dramatic sigh, then softened. "Reina, I know this half-and-half life is tricky. But don't bottle things up. Magic or not, you're allowed to be weird."
I smiled weakly. "Thanks, Mum."
But I didn't tell her. Not yet.
Because deep down, I already knew this wasn't just magic.
It was Mascaromancy. And I was the only one who had it.
That night, I placed the Naruto mask in a locked wooden box under my bed. Wrapped it in cloth. Told myself I wouldn't touch it again.
Not until I was ready.
But as I drifted off to sleep, the sketchbook on my desk rustled in the darkness. A single page fluttered open.
A new drawing formed by itself—lines etching across parchment in graceful, inky strokes.
It was a new mask.
Not Naruto. Not Sailor Moon.
This one had hollow eyes and antlers.
And it was watching me.