London, England - November 1st, 1990
James sat on his bed, staring at the window with an intensity that would have alarmed anyone who didn't know him. His eleventh birthday had dawned gray and drizzly, typical November weather for London, and the morning had passed with agonizing slowness.
It was now 2:47 PM.
No letter had arrived.
His room had transformed over the past four years from a well-stocked library into something resembling an academic fortress. Books lined every wall, double-stacked in places, covering subjects that would make university professors pause. Advanced theoretical physics sat beside ancient philosophy. Botanical encyclopedias neighbored genetic engineering textbooks. Linguistic primers in different languages formed their own dedicated shelf. Chemistry, biology, mathematics, history, geography, astronomy, all of it meticulously organized and thoroughly studied.
The physical evidence of four years spent in obsessive preparation.
"It was on the morning of Harry's birthday..."
Morning.
The letter had arrived in the morning.
James looked at his watch again. 2:48 PM.
"Maybe the book wasn't precise," he muttered to himself. "Maybe 'morning' was approximate. Or maybe the timing is different for different students."
Or maybe, whispered a traitorous voice in his head, maybe you're not magical enough. And that burst of accidental magic four years ago was a fluke. Maybe you're a Squib who just got lucky once.
"NO"
He shoved the thought away violently. No. He'd spent four years mastering wandless magic. He could perform nearly every spell he remembered from the books, could summon and banish objects across the room, could produce water and light with a thought, and could use stunning and disarming spells. The Shield Charm still gave him trouble, requiring multiple attempts to maintain, but he could cast it. He was magical. He had to be.
The Patronus Charm remained his one complete failure. Four years of practice, of dredging up happy memories from both lives, of pushing his magic to its absolute limits, and he'd never managed more than a faint wisp of silver vapor. That spell required some knowledge he apparently didn't possess.
But everything else? He'd mastered it.
Almost everything.
The Blasting Curses remained untested, too dangerous to practice in his room or anywhere he could access safely. The Fiendfyre was obviously out of the question. Transfiguration spells, he didn't remember any. But the vast majority of the spells he'd catalogued, he could perform with varying degrees of success.
He was ready.
He'd been ready for years.
So where was his letter?
"James?" His father's voice called from downstairs. "Are you sure you don't want to go out? We could still make it to Benares by evening."
Benares was his favorite restaurant, an upscale Indian establishment his mother loved. They'd celebrated his birthday there every year since he was five. The food was exceptional, the atmosphere sophisticated, and normally, James would have been happy to go.
But not today.
"I'm sure, Dad!" he called back. "I just want to stay home this year."
He'd had to argue his case carefully. His parents had been surprised, even a bit hurt, when he'd insisted on staying home. But James had explained that he wanted a quiet birthday, that he was feeling introspective, that he'd rather spend the day reading than in a crowded restaurant. It wasn't entirely untrue. He just couldn't risk being away from the house when his letter arrived.
If it arrived.
James stood and began to pace, a nervous energy thrumming through his body. The past four years had been a whirlwind of academic achievement that had amazed even his perpetually impressed parents.
He'd completed his O-Levels at age nine, scoring top marks in every subject. His examiners had been speechless. The youngest candidate in decades, possibly ever, and he'd achieved distinctions across the board.
His A-Levels followed at age ten. More shocked examiners. More perfect scores. Mathematics, Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Further Mathematics, English Literature, History, Geography. Eight A-Levels, all with the highest possible grades.
The newspapers had wanted to interview him. His parents had politely declined on his behalf. The last thing James needed was media attention, drawing scrutiny to his unusual abilities.
Because, alongside his academic achievements, his true education had continued in secret.
He'd mastered Latin, Sanskrit, Arabic, Swahili, Persian, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Ancient Greek, working with a rotating series of tutors his father had hired. The tutors had been impressed by his linguistic aptitude, his perfect recall, and his ability to absorb grammar and vocabulary at an impossible rate.
What they didn't know was that he was studying these languages specifically to access magical texts, to understand spell construction, to read the ancient grimoires he hoped to find once he entered the wizarding world.
He'd thrown himself into subjects that initially hadn't interested him, driven by an almost feverish need to understand the foundations that magic would build upon. Botany became fascinating when he considered magical plants. Genetics became riveting when he contemplated how magic might alter biology. Chemistry transformed into the theoretical basis for potions maybe even alchemy. Physics became a playground for understanding how magic changed natural laws.
His parents had been shocked by his fervor, by the way he consumed knowledge with an almost frightening intensity. Mum had worried he was pushing himself too hard, that his obsession with learning was unhealthy. Michael had been proud but concerned, watching his son spend sixteen-hour days reading, studying, absorbing everything he could.
If only they knew the truth.
James wasn't studying to be smarter. He wasn't preparing for a prestigious university or a high-powered career.
He was preparing for a magical world. A world where he'd be starting at a disadvantage. A muugleborn who'd be starting out in a completely new world with no connection or support. Where the most powerful social class would loathe his mere existence. His knowledge and magical ability will be all that can be depended on in the new world and life he has already chosen for himself.
Discovering magic had awakened something deeper, a hunger he hadn't known he possessed or was even capable of.
He wanted to understand all of it. The theory and practice, the ancient and modern, the light and dark. He wanted to create impossible things, wanted to explore the boundaries of what magic could do. Flying cars and expandable tents, and bags bigger on the inside than outside. Spells that could manipulate time and space.
Spells that could preserve life or end it. The mysteries of the Veil, the nature of death, the mechanics of love as a magical force.
Magic wasn't just a tool. It was a frontier, an entire dimension of reality waiting to be explored.
And James desperately wanted to map every inch of it.
He'd spent countless hours studying the five mysteries the Department of Mysteries researched: Love, Time, Space, Thought, Fate, and Death. He'd read every philosophy text he could find on consciousness and existence. He'd studied physics at the quantum level, where reality itself became probabilistic and strange. He'd delved into neuroscience to understand thought, into cosmology to understand space, and into theoretical frameworks for time.
All of it was waiting for the moment when magic would give him the tools to push beyond what Muggle science could explain.
But first, he needed his letter.
James checked his watch again. 3:15 PM.
A knock on his door made him jump.
"Come in," he called, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice.
Mum entered, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. She'd taken the day off from the hospital, a rare occurrence, and she looked more relaxed than usual in casual clothes, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders.
"Thought you might be hungry," she said, setting the tray on his desk. Her eyes swept over the towers of books, the organized chaos of his academic chaos. "You've been up here all day."
"Just reading." He gestured vaguely at the book in his hands, currently a text on quantum entanglement.
Yara sat on the edge of his bed, her expression soft.
"Eleven years old today," she said quietly. "Do you know what I was doing at eleven? Playing cricket with my cousins. Climbing trees. Getting into trouble." She smiled at the memory. "My mother used to despair of me ever sitting still long enough to study."
"You became a surgeon," James pointed out. "You obviously learned to sit still eventually."
"Eventually, yes. But not at eleven." She reached over and took his hand. "James, I know you're happy with your books. Your father and I have accepted that you're... different. Special. But sometimes I worry that you're missing out on being a child."
James squeezed her hand gently. This conversation happened periodically, and he'd learned how to navigate it. "I know it seems strange, Mum. But I really am happy. This is who I am."
"I know." She sighed.
"I'm just curious," he said. "About everything. The world is so big, so complex. I want to understand it."
"Most children want to understand it by exploring, by doing, by experiencing."
"I'm not most children."
"No," Yara agreed softly. "You're certainly not."
She stood, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Your father is making your favorite dinner. Chicken tikka masala with his terrible attempt at homemade naan." She smiled. "Come down in an hour or so? It's still your birthday, even if you don't want to celebrate properly."
After she left, James returned to his vigil at the window. The afternoon light was fading, shadows lengthening across the garden. The drizzle had intensified into proper rain.
4:32 PM.
5:15 PM.
6:03 PM.
The anxiety was building to unbearable levels. Harry had received his letter on his birthday. It was a plot point, a significant moment. But here James was, more than halfway into his eleventh birthday, and nothing.
"James!" His father's voice echoed up the stairs. "Dinner's ready!"
James took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous energy that thrummed through his veins. Maybe the letter would come tomorrow. Maybe the timing was different for Muggleborns versus half-bloods versus those who already knew about magic. Maybe he was worrying over nothing.
He descended the stairs slowly, his feet dragging on as each of his steps felt heavier than the last. The dining room was warm and inviting, the table set with care.
His father had outdone himself. The chicken tikka masala looked restaurant-quality, the rice perfectly fluffy, and there was his father's infamous attempt at naan bread, slightly charred around the edges but made with love.
"There he is," Michael said with forced cheer, clearly trying to compensate for the subdued birthday celebration. "The birthday boy himself. Come, sit. Let's eat before it gets cold."
James took his seat, mechanically spooning food onto his plate. The aroma should have made his mouth water. His father was an excellent cook, and this was his favorite meal. But he couldn't taste anything, couldn't focus on anything except the crushing disappointment settling in his chest.
What if he'd been wrong about everything?
"So," Yara said brightly, passing him the raita, "eleven years old. Practically a teenager. Have you thought about what you'd like to do next? More languages? Perhaps some practical sciences? You could probably audit university courses if you wanted."
James opened his mouth to respond when the doorbell rang.
He froze, his fork halfway to his mouth.
The doorbell seldom rang this late. They weren't expecting anyone. It was past seven in the evening, dark outside, raining steadily.
Michael frowned, setting down his napkin. "Who could that be at this hour?" He stood, heading toward the front door. "Probably someone selling something. I'll send them away."
James couldn't move. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. This was it. This had to be it.
He heard the front door open, heard his father's polite but puzzled voice. "Yes? Can I help you?"
A woman's voice responded, low and formal, but James couldn't make out the words from the dining room.
"I'm sorry, what?" Michael's voice, louder now, was confused. "A school? I'm afraid you're mistaken. My son has already completed his A-Levels. He's only eleven, but he's quite advanced."
More quiet words from the woman.
"An exclusive school?" Michael sounded bewildered. "Look, I don't know what this is about, but we're in the middle of dinner. If you'd like to schedule a proper appointment..."
The woman said something else.
There was a long pause. Then Michael's footsteps returned to the dining room. His face was a mixture of confusion and unease.
"James," he said slowly, "there's a woman at the door. She says she's a representative from a school. An exclusive boarding school. She's asking to speak with all of us together." He shook his head. "I told her you'd already passed your A-Levels, but she insists it's important. She says she needs to invite you personally."
Yara's eyebrows rose. "A boarding school? We've never applied to any boarding schools."
"I know. That's what I told her. But she's very persistent." Michael looked at James. "Do you know anything about this?"
James's mouth was dry. He managed to shake his head, not trusting his voice.
"Well, we might as well see what she wants," Michael said, though he sounded uncertain. "It's highly irregular, but she seems quite determined. She's waiting in the drawing room."
James stood on shaky legs. This was it. After four years of waiting and preparing, of wondering if he'd imagined everything, this was the moment.
He walked toward the drawing room, dimly aware of his parents following behind him. The door was ajar, and through it, he could see a woman sitting primly on their sofa.
James pushed the door open fully and stopped dead.
The woman was perhaps sixty years old, with dark hair with some white pulled back in a severe bun. She wore an emerald green dress, full-sleeved and floor-length, formal in a way that seemed almost anachronistic. But it was the way she held herself, the air of absolute authority she projected, and most tellingly, the pointed witch's hat sitting on the cushion beside her that made James's breath catch.
She looked up as he entered, and her sharp eyes fixed on him.
"Good evening, Mr. Acton," she said, her Scottish accent crisp and precise. She gestured to the chair across from her. "Please, sit down."
James couldn't move. He could only stare at her, at her impossibly old-fashioned dress, at the way she sat with perfect posture, at the faint air of magic that seemed to shimmer around her.
"James?" His mother's voice behind him, concerned. "Are you alright?"
The woman's lips quirked in what might have been amusement. She reached into a pocket of her robes and withdrew a thick envelope of yellowish parchment. The same emerald green ink he'd been imagining all day addressed the front:
Mr. J. ActonThe Second Bedroom34 Chelsea,London
"Mr. Acton," the woman said formally, holding out the envelope, "my name is Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am here to formally invite you to attend our institution."
The world seemed to tilt sideways.
James stared at the envelope, at Professor McGonagall's stern but not unkind face, at the witch's hat sitting on his family's sofa.
Behind him, his father made a strangled sound. "Witchcraft and... I'm sorry, what?"
But James couldn't hear him. All he could see was the letter, the proof that everything he'd prepared for was real.
Four years of waiting.
Four years of magic practiced in secret, of plans made and remade, of anxiety and anticipation.
And now, finally, it was beginning.
Professor McGonagall's expression softened slightly as she looked at James's shocked face.
James's hand trembled as he reached out and took the envelope.