Darkness held him.
Thick. Heavy. Cold.
He floated somewhere beneath the world, where thoughts came slowly, like bubbles rising through sludge. There was no pain, but there was no peace either. Only… fragments.
Trees. Running. Teeth.
He felt the bite again — white-hot, sharp — and jerked.
Air hit his lungs.
The world slammed back into him.
He gasped, choking, eyes snapping open to a ceiling not his own. Lanterns hung suspended above — flickering with soft, floating flames that didn't burn. The sheets beneath him were crisp, the air smelled like sterile potion and metal. Somewhere, a quill scratched softly. Distant voices echoed through the wall.
Where… am I?
His heart pounded. His fingers twitched. The bite on his shoulder throbbed — not just with pain, but with something deeper, a pull in his chest like pressure building from the inside.
He sat up too fast. The room spun.
He was small — again. He could feel it in the weight of his limbs, in the way the bed suddenly towered around him. He looked down at his hands — still his, but not. Shorter fingers. Pale. Bandaged.
This isn't my body.
The door creaked open. He flinched.
A witch in healer robes stepped in, humming quietly and holding a bottle of blue liquid. She stopped when she saw him sitting up.
"Oh!" she blinked, startled. "You're awake already. Merlin's beard, you gave us a scare—"
"Where am I?" His voice cracked. High. Small.
Her expression softened, though he didn't miss the flicker of wariness behind her eyes. "You're safe, dear. This is St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. You were found in the Forbidden Forest. Bitten. But the Aurors brought you in just in time."
St. Mungo's.
Forbidden Forest.
Aurors.
Magic.
Pieces clicked into place like shards from shattered memory. Not clearly, not perfectly, but enough.
This wasn't just a dream. It wasn't a hallucination.
He had read these names. Years ago.
This was the wizarding world.
And he was someone else now.
"Your name," the healer said gently, setting the potion on the nightstand. "Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?"
He opened his mouth. Nothing came.
What was his name?
The real one — from Earth — felt like a shadow, fading the harder he chased it. And this world hadn't given him a new one yet.
He looked at her blankly.
"No name?" she asked softly.
He shook his head.
"That's alright. No rush. We'll figure it out."
She handed him the potion glass. He hesitated, sniffed it. Bitter mint and chalk.
"Calming Draught," she said. "For the pain. And… other things."
He took a sip.
And then it happened.
A crackle under his skin — like lightning waking up.
He gasped, dropping the glass. It shattered on the floor.
His chest glowed, golden veins pulsing out from the bite mark. Objects trembled. The bedframe creaked. The healer stepped back, alarmed.
"What are you—wait—no, not again—!"
BOOM.
A burst of raw magic erupted — not as violent as before, but wild. Alive. A painting blew off the wall. His body arched as the surge passed through him. Not pain. Power.
Then, stillness.
He collapsed back onto the pillow, breathing hard. The glow faded.
His hands still shimmered faintly.
His magic was awake. Angry.
And he had no idea how to control it.