Year 1991 – Winchester, England
Morning light slipped through the curtains, pale and uncertain. It stretched across the walls in thin lines of gold, catching dust in the air and freezing it in place. Outside, Winchester remained quiet. The cobblestones still held the night's dampness, reflecting the sky in muted greys and blues. Somewhere far off, a cart moved slowly over stone, its wheels creaking with the patience of an old city.
"It's morning," I murmured.
I had been awake for hours.
The ceiling stared back at me as the house settled into its familiar rhythm—the ticking clock, the soft hum inside the walls, my parents moving downstairs. Ordinary sounds. Safe sounds.
Eleven years.
That was how long I had lived in this world.
At first, I believed I had simply been reborn, thrown backward in time for reasons I didn't understand. But yesterday had changed everything.
Yesterday, I realized what kind of world this truly was.
A grey owl.
Its feathers were smooth, its amber eyes sharp—too sharp for a normal bird. It perched on my windowsill without fear, watching me as if I were the strange one. In its beak was a cream-colored envelope, sealed in green wax.
When I took it, my hands trembled.
The seal bore a single letter—H—encircled by four creatures.
"Hogwarts…"
The word refused to feel real.
Is this… that world?
Memories from my previous life surfaced—novels read late into the night, stories used as escape.
Characters, events, disasters. Some details were blurred, others painfully clear.
1991, I thought. Which means it hasn't started yet.
Voldemort.
Dumbledore.
Seven years of chaos waiting ahead.
I felt it then—unease, sharp and cold, tangled with something dangerously close to anticipation.
Standing before the mirror, I studied my reflection.
An eleven-year-old boy stared back. Lean. Too composed. My eyes drifted to the scar running along my left cheek, pale and uneven, stretching from temple to jaw.
To anyone else, it was nothing.
A childhood injury. A birthmark.
That was what my parents believed.
I raised a hand and touched it.
Only I knew the truth.
This scar didn't belong to this life.
I was not born into this world—not truly. I had lived before, under a different name, in a different country. A life marked by neglect, endless work, and silence that hurt more than shouting ever could. An abusive mother. A drunk father. No friends. No escape.
Except books.
Stories had been my refuge. And among them was the story of a boy who survived loneliness and found belonging at Hogwarts.
And now I'm here.
I let out a slow breath.
"At least," I whispered, "this time my mother loves me."
The kitchen was warm with sunlight and the smell of breakfast. I sat quietly as my mother placed toast and cocoa in front of me.
"Eat while it's warm," she said.
No impatience. No pressure.
My father walked in moments later, ruffling my hair
.
"Cold outside. Take your scarf."
I stiffened—out of habit.
Nothing followed.
No anger.
No criticism.
Just care.
I drank the cocoa slowly, half-expecting the warmth to disappear the moment I trusted it. It didn't.
If I go to Hogwarts, I thought, then everything written in those stories is waiting to happen.
I rubbed my temples.
"What should I do?"
Before leaving the table, I looked back at them.
Richard Kendrick.
Eleanor Kendrick.
I am David Kendrick. Their son.
I handed them the letter.
An owl-delivered envelope. An impossible name.
Richard frowned. "It must be a prank."
Eleanor read the letter carefully, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. She touched my cheek gently.
"It says someone will come to explain," she said softly. "If it's real."
"Hogwarts…" she murmured. "We'll see."
"I'll be in my room," I said. "It's Sunday."
As I went upstairs, I felt their eyes linger on me.
They had always known something was different.
I didn't trust easily.
I had no friends.
I was too quiet. Too controlled.
I didn't act like a child.
And that worried
them more than they would ever say.
************
End of this chapter.