The first thing he felt was cold.
Not the sharp bite of winter, nor the sterile chill of a hospital room. This was a different kind of cold—deep, muted, like the world itself had gone quiet and forgotten to breathe. It pressed against his skin, seeped into the gaps between thought and memory, and lingered there with a strange, patient weight.
For a moment, Ian didn't know if he was awake, dreaming, or caught somewhere in between.
Then the pain came.
A dull throb pulsed behind his eyes, followed by a ripple of heat traveling down his spine. Images floated up one by one: a streetlight flickering on a rainy night, the glow of a phone screen, a sudden impact, the sharp squeal of tires—then nothing.
A life cut off mid-sentence.
His eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—aged wooden beams, uneven plaster, small cracks that traced the surface like veins. Afternoon sunlight spilled through a window to his left, casting soft golden lines across the room. Outside, birds chirped with a kind of carefree simplicity he had never noticed before.
Where am I?
He tried to sit up but froze. His body felt wrong—smaller, lighter, fragile in a way he hadn't been since childhood. His hands trembled as he lifted them.
They were small. Child-sized.
He inhaled sharply.
No… that's not possible.
Before the panic could take root, something else stirred—something mechanical, cold, and inhuman, sliding into the forefront of his mind with perfect precision.
A voice spoke inside his thoughts.
[Initializing…]
His heartbeat stumbled.
[Memory fragments detected.]
[Soul integrity: 41%. Recovering…]
[Metaphysical Auxiliary Intelligence System — Online.]
The voice carried no emotion, no hesitation. It wasn't human. It wasn't pretending to be. It was a machine carved into thought itself—calm, absolute, all-consuming.
Ian's breath caught in his throat.
He knew this. Or at least, he knew things like this.
A soul-bound AI.
A cognitive assistant.
A tool designed to analyze, calculate, optimize—just like in the stories he used to read, the ones where magic and science intertwined.
But this… this felt too real, too sharp. The presence pulsed like a quiet star inside him, its awareness brushing against his own.
Is this… reincarnation?
The thought formed slowly, carefully, like stepping onto thin ice.
The voice responded instantly.
[Affirmative.]
[Previous life: Deceased.]
[Current vessel: Human, male, age 11.]
[World classification: Unknown.]
[Magic signature detected.]
Magic.
Ian's breath softened as something inside him—instinct, memory, maybe hope—stirred.
He forced himself to look around. The room was modest: wooden furniture, a bedside table with a cracked lamp, wallpaper faded from age. Clothes—small clothes—lay neatly folded on a chair. A stack of books sat beside them, titles handwritten on their worn spines.
He leaned forward and picked one up.
"Beginners' Guide to Potions — 1968 edition."
His fingers tightened on the cover.
Another book: "Introduction to Transfiguration."
Another: "The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1."
And then—
"Hogwarts: A History."
His breath hollowed out in his chest.
Hogwarts.
No way.
He flipped the book open, hands shaking. The familiar script stared back at him, unmistakably British, old-fashioned. A crest marked the top of the page—the four houses intertwined around a central shield.
It was real.
Magic was real.
Hogwarts was real.
A sound escaped him—half-laugh, half-breath, the kind that comes when the world tilts too far to understand.
He wasn't dreaming.
He wasn't imagining this.
He had been reborn… here.
The AI chimed again, cutting through the swirl of emotion.
[Current date estimation: 1971.]
[Magical environment density: 134% of standard baseline.]
[Neural stabilization complete.]
1971.
His pulse quickened.
That would place him in the Marauders era—James Potter, Sirius Black, Lily Evans, Severus Snape. Before the rise of Voldemort's power, before the first war swallowed the country whole.
A dangerous era.
A legendary one.
And now, somehow, his era.
He let out a slow breath and pressed his palms against the bedsheets to steady himself. "Okay," he whispered. His voice sounded younger, softer, with a hint of British accent.
He repeated, slower this time.
"Okay."
He needed information. Structure. Control.
And that meant the AI.
He closed his eyes and focused inward.
Status.
The response came instantly, displayed not on a screen but directly in the quiet space of his mind.
[STATUS]
Name: Ian
Age: 11
Bloodline: Unknown (Muggleborn suspected)
Magic Capacity: Below First-Year Standard
Magic Control: Superior
Soul Strength: Fragmented/Reforming
Affinity: Undetermined
AI Core: Initiated (4%)
A child's body.
Weak magical reserves.
A soul still knitting itself back together.
But his magical control—
Superior.
He blinked, a strange burst of excitement flickering behind his ribs. Magical capacity could be grown; magical control was far harder to improve. It dictated finesse, precision, the ability to cast advanced spells early.
He had been dealt a strange hand: weak, yet full of potential.
"AI," he whispered, testing the word out loud. "Can you hear me?"
[Affirmative.]
"What exactly are you?"
A pause—one that wasn't hesitation but the quiet gathering of data.
[Metaphysical Auxiliary Intelligence System.]
[Designed to support host cognition, analyze magic, optimize growth, and assist in long-term evolutionary development.]
"Long-term… evolutionary development?"
[Affirmative.]
"So you're not just here to… help me study," he murmured.
[Negative. My primary function is to ensure your maximized progression within magical and non-magical systems. Extensions available upon system growth.]
Extensions.
Upgrades.
Evolutions.
The implications were dizzying.
But he wasn't ready to explore them yet. There were more urgent concerns.
Memories of the Harry Potter timeline ran through his thoughts—fragmented but clear enough. This world wasn't a game or a cozy magical adventure. Beneath the castle's charm lay shadows: prophecies, wars, dark lords, cursed artifacts.
He couldn't rely on canon.
Canon didn't account for him.
"AI, can you detect wandless ambient magic in the room?" he asked.
[Scanning…]
[Ambient magic concentration stable.]
[No external magical anomalies detected.]
Good.
His privacy was intact—for now.
He swung his legs over the bed and slid to the floor. His bare feet touched cold wood. The sensation grounded him more than anything else had so far. He walked toward the mirror near the door.
A young boy stared back.
Dark brown skin.
Sharp eyes, too observant for eleven.
Hair short, neat, almost too tidy.
A frame thin from childhood poverty, judging by the clothes folded earlier.
But his eyes—there was something ancient there. Depth sharpened by another lifetime.
He exhaled softly.
"So this is me now," he murmured.
A knock startled him.
"Ian? You awake, love?" a woman's voice called from the hallway—warm, gentle, with a slight accent. "Breakfast is getting cold!"
His heart tightened.
The mother of this body—his new mother.
He swallowed hard, steadying his breath. "Coming!" he called back, mimicking the tone he imagined an eleven-year-old version of himself might use.
He grabbed the stack of books on instinct and tucked them under his arm as he opened the door.
The hallway smelled like toast and tea. Faded photographs lined the walls—memories of a family he did not remember, but one he would have to honor nonetheless.
A woman stood near the kitchen doorway, her apron dusted with flour. Light brown hair tied back hastily, kind eyes, tired lines around them. She smiled.
"You slept in again," she teased. "Honestly, you'll never catch the morning owls this way."
Owls.
He stiffened.
She didn't seem to notice. "Go wash up. I'll serve your plate."
He nodded wordlessly and slipped into the kitchen. Breakfast sat waiting—eggs, toast, a small slice of ham. Simple, humble, real.
He sat and ate quietly.
The AI was silent, letting him adjust.
Halfway through his meal, the woman placed an envelope beside his plate.
His hand froze.
Thick parchment.
Neatly folded.
Heavy, wax-sealed.
Stamped with an ornate crest—lion, serpent, eagle, badger encircling a bold letter H.
He stared at it.
The world seemed to narrow into a single point.
His first Hogwarts letter.
His throat tightened with something impossible to name.
Pride?
Relief?
A second chance carved from the bones of another life?
He reached out with trembling fingers and broke the seal.
The parchment unfolded smoothly, the ink dark and crisp.
> HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
Dear Mr. Ian,
We are pleased to inform you…
His vision blurred slightly.
This was real.
He was going to Hogwarts.
He was going to learn magic—not vaguely, not through fantasy or imagination, but truly. Spell by spell. Theory by theory. Power by power.
And with his AI…
With his reincarnated knowledge…
With his quiet determination…
He would not be just another student.
He would build himself from the ground up—methodically, patiently, relentlessly.
A world of magic waited for him.
Secrets older than the castle walls.
Forces deeper than any curriculum taught.
Paths no normal wizard could walk.
He folded the letter gently and took a slow breath.
This time, he wouldn't waste his life.
He wouldn't drift.
He wouldn't settle for mediocrity.
This was his second chance.
And he would rise—alone if he must, quietly if he could, but inevitably all the same.
The AI flickered within him, a cold ember.
[Objective One: Begin magical development.]
[Objective Two: Assess Hogwarts resources.]
[Objective Three: Construct long-term ascension framework.]
Ian smiled faintly.
"Yeah," he whispered. "Let's start there."
The journey had begun.
And the world—this world, and every world beyond—would never be the same.