Vikram Thakur remembered the moment of death clearly — headlights, impact, silence. He expected nothing after that. Instead, he woke to candlelight floating near a wooden ceiling and the distant hum of something that felt like electricity in the air — except it wasn't electricity. It was magic.
By the time he was five, his past-life memories had fully stabilized. He confirmed three critical facts: he was in Britain, magic was real, and this was the wizarding world. Overheard conversations filled in the most dangerous detail — a Dark Lord was already rising in power. The adults refused to say the name.
That means I'm early," Vikram concluded. "Too early."
Unlike accidental magic bursts described in books, his magic behaved with unusual precision. When he focused, objects moved smoothly. When he tried small wandless effects, they responded like trained tools instead of wild forces. His magical core felt structured — layered — almost engineered.
His parents called him gifted. Vikram called it suspicious.
He began testing limits quietly: controlled levitation, rune tracing, intent-based casting. Results repeated consistently. That meant one thing — he could grow fast if not restricted.
So he made a decision at age seven: Hogwarts would be a library, not a home. He would learn everything — but never belong fully.
Because institutions, he knew from both lives, feared innovators more than villains.
The Hogwarts letter arrived exactly on schedule.
He smiled when he read it.
"Let's see how long you tolerate me," he said.