Magnus Flower stared at his own hand.
It was too small. The knuckles were clean, completely free of the scar he’d gotten on his right thumb back in 2026 when he tried to chop an onion too fast while watching a livestream on his phone.
He flexed his fingers. Smaller. Definitely smaller.
"Magnus! Put the milk back in the fridge before it goes off!"
The voice came from the hallway. It belonged to Arthur Flower—his father in this life, a man who ran a small, aggressively boring stationery shop three streets away from their suburban terrace house in Surrey.
"Yeah! Doing it!" Magnus called back. His voice sounded thin, high-pitched, like an eleven-year-old kid. Which, according to the calendar hanging by the pantry door, he currently was. It was July 1991.
Magnus grabbed the heavy glass milk bottle and shoved it onto the top shelf of the fridge.
Six months ago—or what felt like six months ago—he had been sitting in his bedroom in 2026, staring at a monitor screen, holding a secondhand copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. He’d bought it off a thrift app purely because he’d seen a fan edit of Hermione Granger on TikTok and decided he was finally going to see what the hype was about. He had read the back cover, flipped to page three, felt a sudden, sickening dizziness like falling down an elevator shaft, and then woke up on the linoleum floor of this kitchen with a fresh set of memories that didn't belong to him.
He knew who Harry Potter was in concept. Boy with a scar, magic school, dark wizard named Voldemort or something. But he had zero idea about the details. He hadn't even finished Chapter 1 of the book before his brain pulled the plug.
So much for reading the damn thing, Magnus thought, leaning against the kitchen counter.
He reached for a wooden spoon lying on the table, picked it up, and gripped it tight.
Then he stopped moving.
In his mind's eye, a split-second before it actually happened, he saw the wooden spoon snap right where his thumb pressed down. One second into the future. A clear, stark vision.
Crack.
The spoon snapped in half. Real life caught up to the vision a fraction of a second later. His grip had crushed the hardwood like it was a dry pretzel.
Magnus cursed under his breath, dropping the two broken pieces onto the table. He rubbed his hand on his trousers.
This was his thing. Ever since he woke up in this body a month ago, he’d noticed two weird facts about himself. First, he was ridiculously, unreasonably strong for a kid who looked like a gust of wind could knock him over. He could lift the heavy cast-iron stove if he wanted to. Second, if he focused really hard, he could see what was going to happen roughly two seconds before it happened. It wasn't full prophecy—just a quick, flickering snapshot of movement.
Magic? Maybe. He didn't know how to cast spells or fly on brooms, but he knew this wasn't normal.
"Magnus, did you hear the postman?" his mother, Sarah, asked, walking into the kitchen while drying a ceramic plate with a floral towel. She looked tired, her hair held back with a plastic clip that didn't quite catch all the loose strands.
"No," Magnus said, stepping quickly over the broken wooden spoon so she wouldn't notice it. "I was just... looking at the fridge."
"Well, go check the front mat. Your dad is expecting a delivery of ledger paper."
"Right."
Magnus walked down the narrow hallway, his socks slipping slightly on the polished floorboards. The front door had a small brass mail slot that rattled whenever the wind picked up outside.
On the mat lay three envelopes. Two were junk mail from a local furniture store printed on cheap paper, and one was utility bills.
Wait. There was a fourth one tucked underneath.
It was thick. Heavy. Made of yellowish parchment that felt nothing like the thin white paper of the electric bill.
Magnus picked it up. He flipped it over.
On the back was a purple wax seal featuring a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake, surrounding a large letter 'H'.
On the front, written in dark green ink, it said:
Mr. M. Flower
The Smallest Bedroom at the End of the Hall
4 Privet Drive area... Surrey
(Well, not Privet Drive, but close enough—they lived on Elm Street, three blocks over).
Magnus stared at the green ink. His pulse didn't race, but his brain went completely blank for a moment.
Hogwarts.
The word popped into his head automatically from his vague pop-culture knowledge.
"Is it the paper?" his father called out from the living room, accompanied by the rustle of a newspaper being turned.
"No!" Magnus yelled back. "It's... just bills! And some junk!"
He shoved the thick parchment letter into the back pocket of his jeans, picked up the bills, and walked back toward the living room.
His hands were slightly clammy.
He knew what this meant. Magic was real. The whole story was real. Which meant the girl he’d seen on his phone screen back in 2026—Hermione—was actually out there somewhere right now, probably getting a letter just like this one.
A sudden wave of motivation hit him. He didn't care about dark lords or saving the world. But if going to this school meant he actually got to meet her, he was going to make sure he didn't mess this up.
He handed the bills to his dad, who took them without looking up from the crosswords.
"Thanks, mate," his dad muttered. "Pass me that blue pen off the mantelpiece, will you?"
Magnus reached for the pen.
As his hand moved, his vision flickered—that two-second future flash kicking in automatically.
In the flash, he saw his own fingers wrap around the pen, squeeze too hard because he was distracted, and crush the plastic barrel, spraying blue ink all over his dad's clean beige rug.
Magnus froze mid-motion. He pulled his hand back, took a deep breath, and picked up the pen as gently as if it were a glass egg.
He handed it over carefully.
"Thanks," his dad said, still clicking his tongue at the crossword.
Magnus retreated to his bedroom at the end of the hall, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He sat on his narrow bed, pulled the parchment envelope out of his back pocket, and broke the purple wax seal.
He unrolled the letter.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Dear Mr. Flower,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
He skimmed the rest of the text. Supplies. Books. Robes. A train from King's Cross Station on September 1st.
Then, at the bottom of the parchment, there was an extra note, written in a different, messier hand:
Note regarding Ministry registration for Muggle-born families:
Under current regulations, an official representative will visit your residence within forty-eight hours to explain the registration procedure and guide you through Diagon Alley.
Magnus stared at the word registration.
He had no idea what that meant. In the few things he remembered about Harry Potter, he didn't recall anything about official forms or registrations. Did Harry have to register? Did everyone? Or was this something different?
A heavy knock sounded on the front door downstairs.
Not the polite tap of the postman. Three slow, loud thuds that rattled the windowpane in his room.
Magnus stood up, dropping the letter onto his bed.
Before he reached the door, he looked down at his desk. His wooden desk lamp was vibrating slightly from the impact of the knock downstairs.
He looked at his hands again. Strong enough to break wood, capable of seeing two seconds ahead, and now holding an invitation to a world he knew almost nothing about.
Downstairs, his mother opened the front door.
A voice spoke from the porch—deep, flat, and completely unfamiliar.
Magnus leaned out of his room, listening, but the floorboard under his left foot gave a loud, dry creak.
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