Early July, 1980. The humid air of London, England, hung heavy and close, smelling faintly of coal dust and damp earth.
It was long past eight in the evening, yet a weak, yellow light stubbornly fought the encroaching darkness within a small room on the second floor of the Ellens Church Welfare House.
"A muggy, rotten eleven years of this, then," a voice muttered, thick with a mix of disdain and weary acceptance.
The boy standing in the cramped space—Anduin—stared intently at his reflection in the warped glass of a repurposed wardrobe door. He was a study in contradictions: a slender frame possessing an unnervingly disciplined bearing, and eyes that held the cold, calculating depth of someone far older than his age implied. He repeatedly ran a hand over his chin, a gesture of deep contemplation, before his gaze dropped to his hands.
They were thin, yes, but the knuckles were defined, the grip instinctively strong. They opened and closed slowly, gripping the empty air as though wrestling with an invisible, slippery force.
Eleven years. Eleven years trapped in the cradle of the 1980s, a time he considered an archaic, pre-digital nightmare. No ubiquitous internet, no cell phones, no instant gratification. It was a miserable existence for a soul born of a much later era, a soul that harbored the sophisticated mind of a seasoned adult, specifically, a highly trained former soldier from a future life. The sheer inertia of surviving in this outdated environment, under the suffocating bureaucracy of a church-run orphanage, was a constant, low-level irritation.
"If I were still... the 'Boss,' I wouldn't be stuck haggling over basic seasoning," Anduin mused, cutting off his own self-pitying internal monologue. The thought was instantly shattered by a frantic, heavy-handed pounding on the thin wooden door.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Anduin's eyes narrowed. His martial instincts—memories sharp as newly whetted steel—instantly put him on alert.
"What in the blazes are you doing? Are you trying to wake the whole parish, William?" Anduin's voice was low and taut with annoyance as he unlocked and pulled the door open.
Slumped in the doorway was a boy who looked to be sixteen, maybe seventeen, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. This was William, one of the older orphans under Anduin's subtle, yet absolute, command. He was dressed in a rumpled, faintly dirty shirt and trousers held up by mismatched suspenders, a look that spoke of trying to appear respectable while scrapping on the edges of London's underbelly.
"My apologies, Boss! Truly! This ruddy thing weighs a ton, and I nearly tripped coming up the stairs. The last thing I needed was to smash your... uh, supplies," William stammered, awkwardly hoisting a large, battered cardboard box that clearly contained something weighty. He managed a strained, appeasing grin.
Anduin arched an eyebrow, his gaze unflinching. "You're late. Significantly. Did those layabouts from the North End start causing trouble again? I thought our last 'negotiation' made the property lines clear."
William shook his head vigorously, the messy tangle of his hair flopping. "No, no way, Boss. Ever since you showed those Northland goons that our territory is off-limits—with that little 'demonstration' you did last month—they've been as meek as lambs. We actually scored big today. Found a new, highly lucrative route down near the docks, which is why we're only just getting back now."
He reached into his pocket and produced a crumpled wad of paper currency, mostly low-denomination bills, but a respectable sum nonetheless. He presented it to Anduin with a deferential bow of his head.
"The take for the day, Boss. After expenses and the cut for the lads. That should keep us in decent food for the week, maybe even spring for some proper butter," William reported, his voice tinged with pride.
Anduin took the money without a trace of emotion, folding it precisely. The operation—a loose confederation of local orphan boys running minor errands, delivering goods, and providing "security" in exchange for cash—was his invention, born purely out of the necessity to secure better rations and personal comfort in this stark, unforgiving environment. He was the unacknowledged King of the Ellens Church Welfare House.
"Excellent. Efficiency is appreciated, William. Thank you for your effort." Anduin stepped aside, intending to finally claim his package.
However, William remained rooted to the spot, shuffling his feet and producing an odd, nervous cough. He was wringing his hands, looking anywhere but at the Boss.
"Is there a lingering matter, William? I have... personal matters to attend to. My skills require refinement," Anduin said, the last sentence delivered with deliberate ambiguity.
William finally mustered the courage to speak, leaning in conspiratorially. "Well, the thing is, Boss, it's still early, and after a haul like that, the lads and I were thinking... a little decompression is in order."
Anduin sighed internally. He knew exactly where this was going. He'd introduced a simple card game to keep the bored, aggressive older boys occupied and out of serious trouble—a game of skill and calculation he vaguely remembered from his past life.
"You want to play Mahjong, don't you?" Anduin cut him off dryly. He didn't wait for an answer, turning instead to walk to his small, narrow cot. He knelt, pulled out a worn wooden box from underneath, and presented it to William.
"Here. Play for fun, but do not gamble beyond your means. If you start losing your actual daily wages, Mrs. Abigail will find out, and she'll lock this box away until Christmas. I am not negotiating its return this time," Anduin warned, his voice holding an unmistakable edge of finality.
"No worries, Boss! Just a friendly few rounds! I'll bring it back shiny and on time!" William snatched the box with the enthusiasm of a dog retrieving a bone, his earlier tiredness forgotten. He scurried out of the room, already calling for the other boys.
Anduin closed his door, the faint, distant ruckus of excited young men already audible down the hallway.
"Bloody hell. I think I accidentally taught them an obsessive addiction rather than a relaxing hobby," he muttered, shaking his head with mock despair. He then locked the door securely from the inside, a necessary precaution before his real activities began.
He turned, the military discipline returning to his posture, and then, a slow, genuine smile—one rarely seen by anyone—spread across his face. He rubbed his hands together like a child on Christmas morning and eagerly ripped open the large cardboard box William had delivered.
"Ah, my glorious treasures! Soy sauce, sesame paste, vinegar, cooking wine, a decent sack of rice! It has been too long, my friends!"
The box, surprisingly, held nothing but the esoteric ingredients and seasonings Anduin had specifically requested William procure from a discreet Chinese merchant in Chinatown. This was his true, secret vice. Lacking the mental stimulation of a future-era computer or mobile phone, Anduin had redirected his obsessive energy into one of the only remaining comforts: high-quality, non-English cuisine.
"Every day, boiled meat and mush. It makes one question the point of survival. When I finally get a kitchen to myself, I'm throwing a feast. A proper, three-course Chinese meal. That's a goal worth fighting for," he thought, placing the precious spices carefully back into the box to await their ceremonial use.
Anduin Wilson.
He arrived in this world—this specific Harry Potter universe timeline, as he had come to realize—unsure if he was a transmigrator or a reincarnation. He had simply woken up in the body of a newborn orphaned boy in 1970s Britain, armed with the crystallized memories, reflexes, and iron will of his previous, adult self. As a former elite operative, his mind was a fortress of calmness and rational thought, qualities that allowed him to adapt, survive, and eventually thrive in this dismal environment.
His immediate priority was control. Control over his environment, control over his resources, and, most importantly, control over the secret he carried.
He glanced toward the corner of the room. A twenty-pound cast-iron dumbbell rested innocently against the peeling wallpaper.
Anduin made no sound, no visible effort. He simply focused, drawing a line of pure mental intent.
Instantly, the heavy dumbbell silently lifted off the floor. It wobbled slightly, suspended a foot in the air, dragged upward by an invisible, inexplicable force—a force that had nothing to do with physics and everything to do with him.
He ignored the object, leaving it hanging motionless in mid-air above the corner, a silent, surreal testament to his uniqueness. He then calmly walked to his small, wooden desk, pulled out a thick, well-worn textbook, and began to read.
This strange practice was the genesis of his specialized training regimen, a method he dubbed 'Time-Lapse Training.'
The power had manifested when he was seven or eight. After a strenuous session of physical training—re-establishing the martial arts forms his past body knew by instinct—he had been exhausted. He simply wished for the glass of water sitting across the room, and the glass had sailed smoothly across the table and into his waiting hand.
It was a staggering, terrifying realization. He was a singularity. He was different.
His first fear was discovery. In this church-run home in this pre-scientific era, discovery meant being labeled a monster, a heretic, or a subject for uncomfortable experimentation. Secrecy became his mantra.
He initially called this peculiar ability a "Superpower." Through conscious, methodical testing and practice, he began to peel back its layers. It was initially erratic, "sometimes existent, sometimes non-existent," but through sheer, disciplined repetition, he gradually achieved measurable control.
He found that the power seemed most accessible and potent immediately after his grueling martial arts and meditation sessions. These activities left his mind in a state of 'mental emptiness'—a deep, focused clarity—which seemed to create a stronger connection to the latent power.
From that moment on, Anduin's disciplined nature asserted itself fully. He established a strict daily schedule: intense physical conditioning, meditation to reach that coveted mental emptiness, and then, focused practice to develop his "superpower." He started small—teacups and books. Then chairs and tables.
But lately, something felt fundamentally wrong. The energy he used to lift a chair was proportionally far greater than the energy he used to lift a teacup. The power wasn't scaling logically with mass. It felt... restrictive.
He looked up from his book at the floating dumbbell. It had been suspended there for ten minutes now, demanding a dull, constant expenditure of mental energy just to keep it still.
This is not brute force, Anduin realized. This is not telekinesis as I understand it. It feels less like pushing with the mind and more like pulling on a specific, non-physical thread.
He closed his eyes, focusing inward, trying to trace the source of the effort. When he did, he didn't feel a muscle straining; he felt a faint, flickering energy—a cold, subtle spark residing deep behind his forehead, linked to his very consciousness.
This energy, this 'Strength,' as he now called it, was finite. And lifting a single twenty-pound dumbbell felt like trying to use a delicate fishing line to haul an anchor.
"Inefficient. Massively inefficient," he murmured, his voice cutting the silence. He was running into a wall. His martial arts training gave him the discipline, but it didn't give him the method to properly access this power.
If he was going to survive in this world—a world he now knew contained actual, organized magic, not just petty street gangs—he needed to stop playing with mere "superpowers" and start learning the system. He needed to find the source. He needed to find the magic.
The thought ignited a cold fire in his chest. He would not be some meek orphan. He would not be a mere pawn in a larger, unseen conflict. He was the possessor of an awakened consciousness and a potential power that dwarfed his current reality.
He brought the dumbbell gently back down to the floor, the sound muffled by his careful release of the 'Strength.' The time-lapse training was concluded for the night. Now, it was time for the quiet, continuous search for knowledge.
The knowledge that would lead him from the dismal confines of the Ellens Church Welfare House to the thunderous destiny that awaited him.