Chapter 2

Date 10 July 1970

I opened my eyes and found myself lying in a thin, ragged bed, the rough fabric of the sheets barely providing any warmth. The room around me was rundown, almost crumbling. The walls were cracked and faded, with patches of peeling paint revealing the grimy stone underneath. Dim light filtered through a small, dirty window on the far side of the room, barely illuminating the few pieces of worn furniture—a couple of rickety beds like mine, an old wooden chair, and a small, splintered table in the corner. The air smelled faintly of mildew and dust, and the creak of the floorboards under my weight reminded me just how frail the place was.

I pushed myself up from the bed, feeling the thinness of my body under the too-large, filthy clothes I was wearing. My muscles were weak, as if they hadn't been used in weeks. Suddenly, a sharp headache hit me, and I doubled over, clutching my head as a flood of memories poured in.

Flashes of my life—no, lives—played before me. I remembered the day I was born... and everything in between. This life, I was 15. My name was the same as it had been in my past life, a small shred of familiarity in this foreign, battered existence. I glanced at my reflection in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. My hair was as black as night, framing a pale, handsome face, though thin and gaunt. My eyes—red as blood—stared back at me, vivid and sharp, a stark contrast to the bleakness of my surroundings.

As I sat there, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror, another wave of memories surfaced, filling in the gaps of this life. My parents abandoned me the day I was born. They had thought I was a Squib, someone born without magic.

I could remember the looks of disappointment on their faces, the way they'd turned their backs on me as if I wasn't worth the trouble.

They didn't even wait to see if magic would awaken in me later. To them, I was a failure from the start.

It stung, remembering that rejection, but now it made sense. They had no idea who I really was.

I frowned, piecing together my fractured memories. Squib? I thought, the word feeling wrong in my mind. That's something from Harry Potter. Wait... am I in the Harry Potter world? I wondered.

As soon as that thought crossed my mind, a flood of memories hit me. I remembered receiving my letter to Hogwarts at age 11, the Sorting Hat placing me in Ravenclaw, and the magic I had been learning ever since.

I'm in my fifth year now, I mused, though it felt strange. My alternate self hadn't been the brightest. He had been like a machine, just going through the motions without ambition or any real motive. He was always quiet, blending in, never striving for more. There was something dull about his life, like he was barely aware of his surroundings.

The last memory he had... I winced as it resurfaced. He'd been lying in bed, sick with a terrible fever. His body had been burning up, skin slick with sweat, and his breath came in shallow, labored gasps. His clothes clung to him, damp and uncomfortable, while he tossed and turned on the thin mattress. His throat had been dry, his vision blurry, and the room had spun around him as the fever worsened. He'd been too weak to move, barely conscious, and the pain had been relentless—a pounding headache that wouldn't ease.

That's when it happened. In the midst of that feverish haze, while he was slipping in and out of consciousness, I had merged with him. My consciousness, my memories, all of it had fused with his just as his body was fighting to survive the fever. It was like two souls intertwining, blending into one. When I woke up in his bed, in his body, the fever had broken, and the haze had cleared.

Now, it was just... me.

We are one now, I thought as I stood up from the bed. His soul and mine... we've merged completely. He is me, and I am him. We're the same person. The thought didn't feel strange anymore—it was a fact I was growing used to.

I stretched my stiff limbs and walked toward the small, cracked window. The first light of dawn was just creeping over the horizon, casting a faint orange glow. The sun was rising—it was almost morning.

I need a plan, I thought, staring at the growing light. I'm in the Harry Potter world, I have magic... but I also need goals. My stomach growled, pulling me out of my thoughts. Right. First things first—I'm severely undernourished.

I glanced down at my thin frame. My arms and legs were too skinny, and I could feel how weak my body was. My first goal had to be getting my health back. I needed to start gaining weight and exercising before school started again. I had three months to whip myself into shape.

But before any of that, I needed food. Quietly, I slipped out of the room, the old floorboards creaking beneath my feet as I crept through the darkened hallway. The orphanage was still silent, everyone else still asleep. I knew I had to be careful, especially if I didn't want to get caught sneaking into the kitchen.

I made my way down the narrow hall, past several closed doors, until I reached the large, wooden door that led to the kitchen. Slowly, I pushed it open, and the familiar smell of old wood and lingering food greeted me. The kitchen was small and simple—a few counters lined with chipped plates, a sink that looked like it hadn't been scrubbed in years, and cupboards that held basic ingredients. To the left was a rickety table with mismatched chairs, and just beyond it, an old stove where the food was kept.

I moved toward the large wooden counter where the leftovers from last night's dinner had been left. There were several covered plates and bowls, likely meant to be eaten by the other children in the morning. I had to be smart about this. If I took too much from any one dish, someone would notice. I lifted the lid of one plate and found a few slices of bread—stale, but still edible. I grabbed one piece and then moved to another plate, lifting it carefully. Underneath was a small portion of roasted chicken, still cold. I tore off a little chunk, making sure to leave enough that no one would suspect anything.

Next, I found a bowl of boiled eggs sitting on the far side of the counter. I took one, then moved to a plate that had a few leftover sausages. I grabbed one of those, too, along with a half-empty glass of milk that had been left out on the table. It wasn't much, but it would do for now.

This should keep me going, I thought, balancing the food in my hands as I quietly made my way back toward the hallway. As I closed the kitchen door behind me, the house remained silent. No one had noticed.