Lying back in his rocking chair, Ethan Jones let his mind drift over the events of the past three months. Everything still felt like a dream, surreal and half-unbelievable.
From the earliest age he could remember, Ethan had been plagued by strange, recurring dreams. In them he lived the life of an adult man in a distant, futuristic Eastern country—endless days of monotonous office work, take-away dinners for one, and a quiet, lonely existence. He had never set foot in that country during the eleven years of this life, yet the dreams were vivid, almost real.
It wasn't until three months ago, when his magic violently awakened, that the memories finally clicked into place and he remembered who he truly was.
Thirty years of bachelor life in his previous world hadn't turned him into some legendary archmage.
Yet here, in this second chance, that childhood wish had been granted with laughable ease.
Two more black fireballs materialised in his palms, spinning lazily like twin dark stars. "And these flames… they're nothing like the magic I saw in the films," he murmured to himself. "This innate talent of mine wasn't in any of the movies."
He wasn't sure whether the films had simply failed to adapt everything from the original books, or if the author herself had never truly understood real magic.
"Now the next problem," Ethan sighed, flicking the fireballs out of existence. "Once I've convinced Dad, how on earth am I supposed to find an owl to send the reply to Hogwarts?"
He frowned, half-regretting that he hadn't bribed the delivery owl with more dried anchovies. Maybe he could have kept it around and saved himself the expense of buying his own bird. Not that money was an issue, but free things always tasted sweeter, didn't they?
He picked up the acceptance letter again, rereading the supply list for the hundredth time, already picturing the slow, wonderful Hogwarts life that wouldn't properly begin until September.
That evening, while being driven home in the Bentley, Ethan finally broke the news to his father over dinner.
"You're telling me there's an actual school that teaches magic, and they've personally invited you to attend?" Mr Albert Jones set down his knife and fork, dabbing at his mouth with a linen napkin. His expression was deadly serious. "You're certain this is a real magic school and not some stage-magic academy? Or an elaborate hoax?"
"Yes, Dad. I'm absolutely sure it isn't a prank. And given your… position, I think you already know there are unusual things in this world."
"Unusual?" Mr Jones repeated thoughtfully, nodding. "That may be so. But I cannot agree to this yet. Not until I am one hundred percent certain that this school truly exists."
"Ethan, we've always known you were extraordinary," he continued, voice softening. "Animals have adored you since the day you were born. That gift has faded a little as you've grown, but it's still there. And after what we've seen these past months…" He trailed off; everyone at the table knew he was referring to the controlled flames dancing above his son's palm.
"We don't need you to be some prodigy or celebrity. Your mother and I only want you to live a healthy, peaceful, happy life."
The sincere words silenced Ethan completely. He could only nod, throat tight.
Mr Jones reached over and patted his shoulder firmly, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "Cheer up, son. I'll look into this properly. We still have until the thirty-first of July, don't we? Plenty of time."
Ethan managed a small smile. "Of course, Dad."
The rest of the family dinner passed pleasantly enough. Afterwards Ethan disappeared upstairs to rush through the homework due on Monday, while Mr and Mrs Jones settled in the living room with the television on low, quietly discussing business.
A week flew by.
Through discreet inquiries in circles most people never knew existed, Mr Albert Jones confirmed the existence of an entire hidden magical society—and of Hogwarts. Because of his wealth, influence, and the fact his own son was a young wizard, the Ministry of Magic had graciously decided not to Obliviate him.
Friday night, at the same dinner table:
"Ethan, I've verified everything. That letter was genuine." Mr Jones paused. "But now we have another problem: how exactly are you going to reply? We don't have the school's address, and we certainly don't have a post owl."
Ethan let out a dramatic groan laced with genuine relief. "That's exactly what I've been worrying about, Dad. I've been trying to track down that same owl for days, but no luck yet. I'll figure something out."
"I'll keep my ears open too. It's only mid-June—there's still plenty of time. Don't stress yourself."
"Thanks, Dad."
To everyone's frustration, another full week passed without success. The few owls they managed to locate were perfectly happy to gorge themselves on dried fish and mice yet completely ignored the sealed reply letter Ethan kept waving at them.
Meanwhile, Ethan's final two weeks of primary school were ticking down.
Ever since his awakening, academic subjects had become laughably easy—as if someone had installed a cheat code in his brain. Almost overnight he'd shot to the top of every class, earning himself a reputation as the school's untouchable prodigy.
One person in particular had taken notice: a certain bushy-haired, buck-toothed little girl named Hermione Granger.
Hermione was utterly fascinated by Ethan's sudden academic domination. She spent far more time analysing his perfect test scores than she did staring at his (admittedly) unfairly handsome face.
With graduation looming, the usual flood of love letters increased tenfold. Every afternoon a gaggle of giggling girls waited by the gates, pressing handmade chocolates, scented notes, and shy confessions into his hands.
Even the normally reserved Hermione worked up the courage one day. Cheeks flaming, she thrust a neatly wrapped parcel towards him.
"Here, Ethan. I… I made this. I hope we meet again someday."
"Of course we will, Hermione Granger," he answered with a warm, knowing smile that sent her heart into overdrive.
Flustered beyond words, Hermione fled, convincing herself his reply had just been polite small talk. With a tiny pang of regret she glanced back once at that dazzling smile, then hurried out of the school building.
"Young Master Ethan remains as popular as ever," teased Pierre-Nico, the family driver and occasional bodyguard, as he held the car door open.
"Being too charming is its own curse," Ethan sighed theatrically. He slipped Hermione's gift into his blazer pocket and dumped the rest of the pile unceremoniously onto the back seat. "Help me dispose of these later, would you?"
Pierre raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He made a mental note to mention the gift-keeping to Mr Jones later—anything to prove he was still useful and keep his generous salary.
"We've arrived, Mr Ethan. See you tomorrow."
"See you, Pierre."
Unfortunately for Pierre's job-security scheming, the Jones family soon had far bigger concerns than their son's potential primary-school romance.
Because on that very evening, Professor McGonagall arrived.
Mrs Sofia Jones opened the front door and found herself face-to-face with a severe-looking, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes and square spectacles.
"You're… a professor from Hogwarts?" she asked uncertainly.
Professor Minerva McGonagall inclined her head. "Indeed I am, Mrs Jones."
The name had been on the acceptance letter, but the woman herself was nothing like any professor Sofia had ever imagined. The long robes looked like something out of a historical drama.
"This is standard wizarding attire," Professor McGonagall explained briskly, as if she had given the speech a thousand times before. "You'll notice the supply list requested several sets of plain black robes—your son will be dressed much the same once term begins."
"Oh! I'm so sorry—of course, please come in." Blushing slightly at having her thoughts read so easily, Sofia stepped aside and ushered the unexpected visitor into the house.