The first thing Arjun noticed was the unfamiliar ceiling above him—ancient stone arches that seemed to pulse with a faint, otherworldly energy. Sunlight streamed through tall Gothic windows, casting dancing shadows across walls lined with moving portraits and floating candles that flickered without any visible flame.
This wasn't his cramped Mumbai apartment. This wasn't the sterile hospital room where he'd drawn his last breath.
Arjun sat up slowly, his small hands gripping silk sheets that felt impossibly luxurious. Small hands? He looked down in confusion. These weren't his calloused, adult hands that had spent countless hours typing code. These were the smooth, pale hands of a child.
The bed was enormous—a four-poster draped in deep burgundy curtains embroidered with what looked like phoenixes and stars. Around him, the room was a study in magical opulence: books that hummed with contained spells floated near a mahogany desk, a telescope pointed toward windows that showed not the bustling streets of India, but rolling Scottish highlands and a vast, mirror-like lake.
"What the hell..." Arjun whispered, then froze. Even his voice was different—higher, younger, with a crisp British accent that definitely wasn't his.
He stumbled out of bed and rushed to a ornate mirror hanging on the wall. The reflection that stared back at him made his heart stop. Gone was his familiar face—the sharp features, dark eyes, and black hair of Arjun Sharma. Instead, he saw a young boy, perhaps eleven years old, with striking white hair that seemed to catch and reflect light like spun silver, and eyes the color of deep sapphires.
Then the memories hit him like a tidal wave—not his memories as Arjun Sharma, the twenty-three-year-old software developer who had died of a sudden heart attack while working late, but the memories of this body. Alan Dumbledore, eleven years old, grand-nephew of the most famous wizard in the world.
As the two sets of memories—his previous life as Arjun and this new identity as Alan—finally settled into harmony, a voice suddenly echoed directly inside his mind. Clear, authoritative, yet somehow warm.
[MEMORY INTEGRATION COMPLETE. WELCOME, HOST. THE SUPREME MAGICAL CODEX HAS SUCCESSFULLY ACTIVATED.]
Alan—he was Alan now, not Arjun—bolted upright, his heart racing as the full implications of his situation became clear. He had died as Arjun Sharma and been reborn as Alan Dumbledore in the Harry Potter universe.
"The Supreme Magical Codex," he whispered, his voice carrying a slight tremor. In his previous life as Arjun, he'd been obsessed with web novels featuring overpowered systems. Now, impossibly, he had one.
[CORRECT, HOST. I AM THE SUPREME MAGICAL CODEX, DESIGNED TO GUIDE YOU TOWARD ABSOLUTE MAGICAL DOMINION. WOULD YOU LIKE TO VIEW YOUR CURRENT STATUS?]
"Yes," Alan replied mentally, not wanting to speak aloud and risk someone overhearing.
A translucent blue screen materialized before his eyes, visible only to him:
SUPREME MAGICAL CODEX - STATUS PANEL
Host: Alan Dumbledore
Age: 11 Bloodline: Pure-blood (Dumbledore Legacy)
Magic Core: Awakened (Grade: Legendary)
Attributes:
Strength: 12/100
Agility: 14/100 Intelligence:
89/100 Wisdom: 67/100
Charisma: 78/100
Magic Power: 95/100
Magic Control: 71/100
Special Abilities:
[Locked] Ancient Magic Comprehension
[Locked] Spell Creation
[Locked] Memory Palace
[Available] Enhanced Learning
System Points: 1000 (Beginner's Gift)
Alan studied the screen with fascination and growing excitement. His magic power was already at an incredible level for an eleven-year-old, nearly at the maximum. But it was the locked abilities that truly intrigued him.
[THE LOCKED ABILITIES WILL BECOME AVAILABLE AS YOU PROGRESS AND COMPLETE SYSTEM MISSIONS. EACH ABILITY WILL DRAMATICALLY ENHANCE YOUR MAGICAL CAPABILITIES.]
"Codex," Alan thought, "can you tell me more about this body's memories? About my parents?"
The familiar mechanical voice took on a more somber tone.
[ACCESSING HOST MEMORIES... DISPLAYING BACKGROUND INFORMATION.]
Images flashed through Alan's mind like scenes from a movie. His father, Marcus Dumbledore, had been Albus's younger brother, younger even than Aberforth. Marcus had possessed the family's characteristic brilliance but channeled it toward magical research rather than teaching or politics. He had fallen in love with Lydia Rosier, a French pure-blood witch from an ancient family, during his travels studying ancient magic.
Their romance had been the stuff of legends—passionate, forbidden by both families initially, and ultimately tragic. They had married against their families' wishes and spent their brief time together traveling the world, documenting lost magical practices and artifacts. Alan had been born during one of their expeditions to Egypt, in a hidden magical community near the Valley of the Kings.
The memories grew darker as Alan recalled his third birthday. His parents had been researching a dangerous artifact—a cursed amulet that supposedly granted immortality at a terrible price. Death Eaters, led by a young Tom Riddle who had not yet become Voldemort, had attacked their expedition. Marcus and Lydia had fought valiantly, using their combined knowledge of ancient magic to hold off the attackers long enough for their colleagues to escape with young Alan.
"They died protecting others," Alan murmured, feeling a mix of pride and deep sorrow that seemed to come from both his current body and his previous soul. "And Uncle Albus took me in."
CORRECT. PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE HAS RAISED YOU FOR THE PAST EIGHT YEARS. YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH HIM IS COMPLEX—HE LOVES YOU AS A SON BUT STRUGGLES WITH GUILT OVER YOUR PARENTS' DEATHS, AS HE WAS THE ONE WHO ENCOURAGED THEIR RESEARCH.
Alan swung his legs out of bed and walked to the window of his room in the Hogwarts Castle. Dawn was breaking over the grounds, painting the lake silver and the mountains beyond in shades of gold and purple. Today was September 1st, 1991—the day Harry Potter would arrive at Hogwarts. The day everything would begin.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Alan? Are you awake, my boy?"
The voice belonged to Albus Dumbledore, and Alan felt a complex mix of emotions—love, respect, but also a new understanding that came from his adult memories. His uncle was brilliant but flawed, a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and sometimes made decisions that sacrificed individuals for the greater good.
"Come in, Uncle," Alan called, his voice steady despite the emotional turmoil.
Dumbledore entered, his long silver beard neatly trimmed and his robes a deep shade of purple. His blue eyes, so similar to Alan's own, twinkled with their characteristic warmth, but Alan could now see the shadows beneath—the weight of secrets and sorrows.
"You're up early," Dumbledore observed, settling into the chair beside Alan's desk. "Nervous about the Sorting Ceremony tonight?"
Alan turned from the window, and Dumbledore's breath caught slightly, as it always did when he looked at his grand-nephew. The boy was the perfect blend of his parents—Marcus's sharp intellect evident in his bearing and Lydia's ethereal beauty reflected in his striking features. But it was the white hair, so rare in their family line, that always reminded Dumbledore of ancient magic and older powers.
"Not nervous, Uncle," Alan replied, his voice carrying a maturity that sometimes concerned the older wizard. "Curious, perhaps. I've been thinking about Mother and Father again."
Dumbledore's expression grew somber. "I see. The anniversary of their passing is approaching, isn't it?"
"Next month," Alan confirmed. "Uncle, I want to know more about their research. About what they were really working on when they died."
"Alan..." Dumbledore began carefully, "some knowledge is dangerous. Your parents understood that risk when they—"
"When they chose to pursue it anyway," Alan interrupted, his blue eyes flashing with determination. "They died because they believed their work was important. I want to understand why."
Dumbledore studied his grand-nephew for a long moment. There was something different about the boy today—a new intensity, a sharpness that hadn't been there before. "Very well. But not today. Today, you begin your official education at Hogwarts. Tonight, you'll be sorted into your house, and your real journey will begin."
"What house do you think I'll be in?" Alan asked, genuinely curious. His system had shown high intelligence and charisma, but his memories of this body suggested a more complex personality.
"That, my dear boy, is entirely up to you," Dumbledore replied with a slight smile. "The Sorting Hat sees not just who we are, but who we choose to be. Your father was a Ravenclaw, brilliant and curious. Your mother was a Slytherin, ambitious and cunning. You carry both their legacies within you."
"And what about courage?" Alan asked. "What about loyalty?"
Dumbledore's smile widened. "Those qualities you've developed yourself, through your own choices and experiences. The Hat will see all of it—your intelligence, your ambition, your courage, your loyalty. But more importantly, it will see your heart."
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: FIRST MISSION UNLOCKED
MISSION: MAKE YOUR MARK
OBJECTIVE: BE SORTED INTO A HOUSE AND MAKE A SIGNIFICANT IMPRESSION DURING YOUR FIRST DAY AT HOGWARTS
REWARD: 500 SYSTEM POINTS + UNLOCK ONE SPECIAL ABILITY
TIME LIMIT: 76 HOURS
Alan felt a thrill of anticipation. His new life was truly beginning.
"Uncle," he said, his voice carrying a new resolve, "I want to make you proud. But more than that, I want to honor my parents' memory by becoming someone worthy of the Dumbledore name."
"You already are, Alan," Dumbledore replied softly, standing and placing a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "You already are."
Two Hours Later - Diagon Alley
The cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley bustled with activity as witches and wizards hurried about their business. Alan walked alongside his uncle, taking in the magical sights that his memories knew but his soul from another world still found wondrous. They had already visited most of the shops—Flourish and Blotts for his textbooks, Madam Malkin's for his robes, and the Apothecary for potion ingredients.
Now they stood before the narrow, shabby shop that would determine his magical focus for the next seven years: Ollivanders.
"Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC," Alan read aloud from the peeling gold letters above the door.
"Indeed," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eyes. "I remember the day I got my first wand from old Garrick's grandfather. Fifteen inches, elderwood and phoenix feather. Served me well through my Hogwarts years."
Alan nodded, though his mind was already working. He knew from his previous life's knowledge that Dumbledore's current wand was the Elder Wand, one of the Deathly Hallows. But that was information for another time.
The bell tinkled softly as they entered the dusty shop. Thousands of narrow boxes were stacked high on shelves that seemed to stretch impossibly upward. The air smelled of old wood and something indefinably magical.
"Good morning," came a soft voice from the gloom. Mr. Ollivander appeared, his wide, pale eyes gleaming like moons in the dim light. "Professor Dumbledore, what an honor. And this must be young Alan."
"Indeed, Garrick," Dumbledore replied warmly. "My grand-nephew is in need of his first wand."
Ollivander's eyes fixed on Alan with unsettling intensity. "Ah yes, Alan Dumbledore. I remember every wand I've ever sold, you know. Your father's wand—twelve inches, yew wood with dragon heartstring. Powerful for curses, that one, though he used it for more noble purposes. And your mother's—elegant, eleven inches, rosewood and unicorn hair. Excellent for charms and healing magic."
"What happened to their wands?" Alan asked quietly.
Ollivander's expression grew somber. "Destroyed in the battle where they fell, I'm afraid. Dark magic can be quite... destructive to magical foci." He brightened slightly. "But let us focus on you, young man. Which is your wand arm?"
"Right," Alan replied.
Ollivander produced a measuring tape that began measuring Alan of its own accord—arm length, shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, and various other dimensions that seemed to have little relation to wand selection.
"Every Ollivander wand contains a core of a powerful magical substance," the wandmaker explained as he climbed a ladder to retrieve boxes. "We use unicorn hairs, phoenix feathers, and dragon heartstrings. No two wands are exactly alike, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are exactly alike."
SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: SPECIAL EVENT DETECTED
THE SUPREME MAGICAL CODEX IS ANALYZING AVAILABLE WANDS...
RECOMMENDATION: WAIT FOR THE OPTIMAL MATCH. YOUR MAGICAL SIGNATURE IS UNIQUE.
"Here we are," Ollivander said, climbing down with several boxes. "Let's try this—oak and unicorn hair, ten inches, nice and flexible."
Alan took the wand, but before he could even wave it, Ollivander snatched it back. "No, no, definitely not."
Box after box was opened and rejected. Apple wood and dragon heartstring—too aggressive. Willow and phoenix feather—not quite right. Each wand seemed to recoil from Alan's touch, or produce effects that clearly displeased the wandmaker.
"Curious," Ollivander murmured after the fifteenth attempt. "Very curious indeed."
"Is there a problem?" Dumbledore asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected what might be happening.
"Not a problem, Professor, but rather... a rarity." Ollivander's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Young Alan here has a most unusual magical signature. It's almost as if he carries the essence of different magical traditions within him."
SYSTEM ANALYSIS COMPLETE
HOST'S MAGICAL SIGNATURE CONTAINS ELEMENTS FROM BOTH LIVES
RECOMMENDATION: THE WAND MUST ACCOMMODATE BOTH WESTERN AND EASTERN MAGICAL PHILOSOPHIES
"Perhaps," Ollivander continued slowly, "we need something special." He disappeared into the back of the shop, returning with a single, dust-covered box that looked older than all the others.
"This wand has been in my family's collection for over two centuries," he said reverently. "Thirteen and a half inches, heartwood of an ancient Indian Ashvattha tree, with a core of phoenix feather from a bird that lived for over a thousand years. The tree grew in a place where Eastern and Western magical traditions met and merged."
Alan's breath caught. An Indian tree—a connection to his past life as Arjun.
"The previous owner was a remarkable wizard," Ollivander continued. "A scholar who traveled between India and Britain, studying both Vedic magic and European wizardry. He never married, had no children, and when he died, he left specific instructions that this wand should wait for someone who carried the wisdom of both worlds."
With trembling fingers, Alan reached for the wand. The moment his skin touched the polished wood, warmth spread through his entire body. Golden light erupted from the wand's tip, swirling around him in patterns that seemed to write Sanskrit characters in the air before dissolving into sparkles.
"Extraordinary!" Ollivander whispered. "I have never seen such a powerful bonding. The wand has chosen you completely, young man."
PERFECT MATCH ACHIEVED
WAND BONDING COMPLETE: +50 MAGIC CONTROL, +25 MAGIC POWER
NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: DUAL MAGICAL TRADITIONS
Alan felt the wand's power flowing through him like a river finding its course. This wasn't just any wand—it was meant for him, for who he truly was.
"How much do I owe you?" Dumbledore asked, though his eyes remained fixed on his grand-nephew with a mixture of pride and curiosity.
"Seven Galleons," Ollivander replied, but his voice was distant, still marveling at what he'd witnessed. "Though I suspect this wand will prove to be worth far more than that."
As they left the shop, Alan could feel his new wand humming with potential at his side. The adventure was truly about to begin.