Chapter 1
Thomas Greene was used to being a quiet kid in the back row—the one people barely remembered unless there was group work or a fire drill. He didn't mind. It gave him room to think.
But this Thursday morning, everything changed.
It was barely half past eight, and he was curled up on his bed in his small second-floor bedroom in Maidenhead, flipping through an old library copy of Watership Down with a cracked spine and a smell of damp pages. Grey clouds smothered the summer sun outside, casting a dull light across the peeling wallpaper. The fan in the corner wheezed faintly, doing little to fight the warmth.
Then came the unmistakable sound of the post slot clattering.
And a thud.
"Mum!" he called. "Did you order anything?"
There was a pause.
Then her voice, half-muttered: "Tom. There's… er, there's a letter here for you. But it's… strange."
He set the book down and padded out to the hallway, where his mother was crouched near the door with a deep frown. In her hands was a thick, yellowish envelope, the sort you'd expect to see in a period drama, not in a two-bedroom council flat in 1991.
The handwriting on it was dark green, the letters precise and elegant in a way few people ever bothered to write anymore:
> Mr T. Greene
Second Bedroom, Flat 4B
Maidenhead, Berkshire
There was no stamp. No postmark. No return address. Just a deep red wax seal on the back, pressed with an elaborate crest—a large "H" encircled by four creatures: a lion, a snake, a badger, and an eagle.
Thomas stared at it.
He didn't reach for it right away. His heart had already begun to beat faster, and his fingers twitched with a mix of instinctive recognition and confusion.
He knew this symbol.
Knew it like someone who had grown up immersed in a fandom. Who had watched the films on scratched DVDs and read forum posts late into the night. Who had cried when a beloved headmaster fell from a tower and cheered when a scrawny boy faced down death with nothing but love and loyalty.
But this—this was real.
"Mum," he said carefully, "did you see who delivered it?"
She blinked. "An owl."
His stomach turned.
"I swear on my life, Tom. Bloody thing swooped down and dropped it through the slot. Flew off before I could grab a photo."
He took the letter with trembling hands, backed into his room, and sat down on the edge of his bed.
With deliberate slowness, he broke the seal.
---
> HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards
Dear Mr Greene,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Thomas read it three times, not because he didn't understand it, but because every time he got to the word "Hogwarts," his thoughts began to unravel.
Magic was real.
The world he knew—thought he knew—was not only fictional in his last life, it was real now. Tangible. Owls delivering letters. A school in Scotland teaching eleven-year-olds how to cast spells. Albus Dumbledore. Minerva McGonagall.
He leaned back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
It wasn't a dream. Not a delusion. Everything—his strange flashes of intuition, the uncanny feeling of waiting for something ever since he was small—made sense now.
He was in that world.
---
The next few hours passed in a blur.
His mother insisted they were being pranked. But then, just after tea, she nearly dropped her cup when a woman in emerald green robes and square spectacles appeared outside the window. They lived on the second floor.
Professor McGonagall introduced herself with practiced courtesy, standing on thin air as if gravity were a suggestion.
"I believe you've received your letter," she said. "I am here to explain the essentials."
Thomas watched her carefully. He recognized the posture, the clipped accent, the restrained sternness. She was exactly how he remembered her—but real. That alone terrified him more than it comforted him.
His mum looked half-convinced she was dreaming. "Is this some… private academy thing? Do you… float about often?"
"Magic," McGonagall said calmly, stepping in through the window. "And yes, I do."
She produced a small wand, tapped her hat, and conjured a floating sheet of parchment. "Your son is a Muggle-born wizard. It is rare, but not unheard of. Hogwarts accepts all students with magical ability, regardless of background."
"You're saying he's going to a magic school?" his mum asked, voice high-pitched.
"Yes."
Thomas, meanwhile, had already pulled out a notepad and started writing.
---
Later, when the shock had dulled slightly, Thomas sat alone in his room, rereading the second parchment that came with the letter.
---
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
First-Year Students Will Require:
Uniform
Three sets of plain work robes (black)
One plain pointed hat (black) for daywear
One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all students' clothes should carry name tags at all times
Books
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
Other Equipment
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set of glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set of brass scales
Students may also bring an owl, cat, or toad
Brooms are not permitted
---
It was all exactly as he remembered it.
Which meant he had a roadmap.
If this was the same world—if this was truly the same story—then he had a four-year head start before things became dangerous. Before the return. Before the war.
He needed to prepare.
No drawing attention to himself. No showboating. Study hard. Learn everything. Magic, theory, potions, languages, wandwork. Maybe Occlumency. He had no prophecy protecting him. No noble bloodline. No inherited vaults. Just his knowledge—and the time he had to make it count.
He would treat this like training.
He would earn the right to survive.
---
That night, he lay awake long after the lights had been switched off. The noise of the council estate hummed faintly through the window—sirens in the distance, the whirr of mopeds, muffled arguments.
But all he could think about was the world now open to him.
Magic.
He was going to a school that taught it.
And tomorrow… tomorrow he would go to Diagon Alley.
He would walk through the Leaky Cauldron. Tap the bricks in the right pattern. Step into that crooked alleyway of shops and spells and strange creatures.
Tomorrow, everything would begin.