Chapter 2

Six hours later, 

I woke up, stretching my stiff limbs. Sunlight streamed through the grimy window, casting dusty golden streaks across the room. The air smelled stale—a mix of old wood and lingering alcohol. I splashed cold water on my face, the shock of it sharp against my skin, and gulped down a glass of water. My mind felt clearer now, the rage simmering to a quiet resolve. The Memory Management skill had done its job—Arjun's memories now felt like a tragic novel I'd read, saddening but distant. Revenge would come, but first, I needed to live.

According to Arjun's fragmented memories, the wizarding world was still reeling from Voldemort's defeat. Dumbledore had sent an owl eight days ago with news of the Dark Lord's fall and Sirius Black's betrayal. Beyond that, Arjun knew little—he'd been too lost in grief.

But I knew.

From my past life as a fan, I remembered: most Death Eaters—Dolohov, Rowle, the Lestrange brothers—were already in Azkaban. Except Yaxley. He'd slipped through the cracks, making him priority number one.

The room was sparse. A moth-eaten wardrobe held a few wrinkled shirts and trousers, and a small pouch contained 5 Galleons and £20. Not much, but enough to start over.

A pang of regret hit me. **If I'd been reborn as a child, I could've attended Hogwarts properly—**not just through borrowed memories. Still, Arjun's experiences weren't all bad. His time at Hogwarts had been bright, even if it ended in ashes. My dream of studying at Hogwarts remained just that—a dream. Even in my first life at the age of 28 I still waited for my Hogwarts letter.

I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror. My face matched my original form more than Arjun's, but the body was unkempt—greasy hair, dirt under the nails, pyjamas stained with sweat and spilled whiskey. Disgust coiled in my gut. Ten days without a bath?

I wanted to bathe, but laziness won as usual. Old habits don't change even in different world so I muttered "All Clean," a spell from my fantasy world. Magic rippled over me, scrubbing away grime and stench. My clothes steamed, wrinkles smoothing into crisp cotton. I used this spell at the room next. Dust vanished, cobwebs dissolved, and the trash disappeared into my Item Box's disposal slot.

The room now smelled of lemon and sunlight.

As I pondered my next move—should I buy food? Or purchase a wand? —then the air near the fireplace suddenly crackled. Magic prickled my skin, electric and foreboding. I instinctively cast an Invisible Barrier, shielding myself.

The flames roared green.

Out stepped Albus Dumbledore, his half-moon glasses glinting, robes swirling like starlight.

The moment I saw Dumbledore step out of the green flames; a jolt of shock surged through me. Dumbledore, Of all people. My grip tightened as I forced my emotions into check.

Dumbledore, too, seemed to pause, his usual twinkling eyes scanning the spotless room. His gaze lingered on the freshly scrubbed floors, the vanished dust, and the faint scent of lemon hanging in the air. Something flickered behind his half-moon glasses—curiosity? Suspicion? —before he settled into his usual serene smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Chhimpa." His voice was warm, but measured. "I see you've… moved on. That is heartening."

I mirrored his tone, my expression neutral. "Good afternoon, Professor. Ten days locked in a room teaches a man many things—good and bad. I've found a new path to walk." A pause. I met his gaze. "And thank you for saving me that day. I won't forget it."

Dumbledore's smile softened, though his eyes remained sharp. "It was my duty as your teacher. When I heard of the attack, I arrived as swiftly as I could, though too late to save your family." He sighed; the sound was heavy with regret. "But your bravery was remarkable. Fighting twelve Death Eaters alone, defeating six… your family would've been proud."

A dull ache stirred within me, but the Memory Management skill kept it distant. I merely nodded. "I wish that were true. But fate is cruel, Professor."

A silence settled between us. Dumbledore turned to the window, watching the bustling street below. "The Dark Lord is gone. Most of your tormentors are in Azkaban… except Yaxley. The Malfoys shielded him." He turned back to me, his voice softer. "I came to offer you a fresh start—a place among us. But it seems you've already chosen your path."

Yaxley. The name ignited a cold fury in my chest, but I kept my voice steady. "I'll deal with Yaxley myself. As for Azkaban's prisoners… let them rot. I've no quarrel with them now." I squared my shoulders. "And I must decline your offer, Professor. My new life begins here."

Dumbledore's smile faded. For a moment, he looked every bit his age—weary, disappointed. "And what will that new life entail, I wonder?" He studied me for a moment, as if weighing unseen possibilities. Then, he sighed. "Vengeance is a hollow pursuit, Arjun. It has a way of consuming even the best of us. Wherever your path leads… tread carefully."

As he turned toward the fireplace, I took a slow breath. Time to test the waters.

"There is one last Favor I must ask, Professor."

He paused, looking back at me.

"I need a wand and a means to leave Britain. Consider it an investment—you will be repaid in full."

Dumbledore studied me again, longer this time. Then, without a word, he tossed a velvet pouch in my direction. It landed in my palm with a heavy clink.

"I hope your new path will lead you to a good future, Mr. Chhimpa."

The green flames roared to life, swallowing him whole.

After finishing my conversation with Dumbledore, I let out a long, shaky sigh. My heart was still racing. I hadn't expected to meet such an important figure this soon—let alone without any preparation. The weight of it all settled on my shoulders, making me realize just how overwhelming this new reality was. The stress coiled in my chest like a tightened spring, and for a moment, I just stood there, trying to steady my breath.

I loosened my grip, glancing inside the pouch—50 Galleons glinted in the sunlight.

A ghost of a smirk crossed my lips. Dumbledore's generosity was appreciated—but unnecessary. I flicked my wrist, opening my Item Box, revealing mountains of gold, silver, and diamonds stacked in neat, glittering piles. Wealth was never my concern.

Still, best to play the part for now.

Now I needed to leave. The question was—where to? India was an option, a comforting thought of familiarity in this strange world. But before that, there were necessities to take care of. The most important was a wand. I didn't actually need one, but using magic without it would draw too much attention. It seemed that in this world, a magician without a wand was almost unheard of.

As I thought about the wand, something nagged at me. The magic in this world felt… different. In my previous world, wandless magic was the norm. People chanted spells freely, and skilled magicians used staffs, wands, or rings not as necessities, but as amplifiers—to refine and strengthen their magic. But here? It was as if human magic simply did not work without a wand.

Arjun's memories confirmed it. When he tried to cast magic, he never felt the energy stir within him; it never coiled inside his veins, never built up in his core. Instead, it flowed directly through his wand, as if his body wasn't even a part of the process. The thought unsettled me. This world had its own rules, its own secrets—secrets I would need to uncover, piece by piece.

Then there was the matter of money. Arjun's memories told me he never had a proper Gringotts account—he only used it for money exchange when necessary. That meant I needed to open one and perhaps sell some gold to secure funds. A part of me felt a pang of sympathy for Arjun. He never owned an owl either, simply because it was too expensive. I could relate to that—before all this, I had been middle-class too. I understood what it meant to weigh every expense carefully.

Diagon Alley was my next stop. Apparition seemed like the obvious choice, but I hesitated. In my memories of Arjun's life, I had used it many times, and each time, I had been left dizzy, nauseous, and disoriented. The sensation of being squeezed through a tight tube was something I had never gotten used to. "Teleportation magic", on the other hand, was far superior—quick, seamless, and without the sickening side effects.

Of course, I could use a "Transfer Gate," but opening a portal in the middle of Diagon Alley would be asking for trouble. It would stand out too much, and in a world where people relied on Floo Powder, Portkeys, and broomsticks, unnecessary attention was the last thing I needed. Teleportation and Apparition looked similar enough that no one would question it—so that was my best bet.

Closing my eyes, I focused on Arjun's memories, summoning a sharp and vivid image of an Apparition spot in Diagon Alley. I took a deep breath, feeling the magic stir in my core as I let it spread through my limbs. A familiar warmth flooded my veins as I activated my teleportation spell.

And in the next instant, the world shifted.

The air around me twisted and blurred, my body weightless for a split second. Then, with a soft rush of displaced air, I landed in the heart of Diagon Alley.

The scent of parchment and ink filled my nose, mingling with the faint aroma of butterbeer and roasted nuts from a nearby stall. The cobbled streets buzzed with life—witches and wizards in colourful robes bustled past, carrying shopping bags and conversing in excited tones. Somewhere in the distance, a street performer was making miniature dragons out of fire, their golden-orange bodies flickering in the evening light.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

As soon as I stepped into Diagon Alley, I was utterly mesmerized. My feet came to an involuntary halt, and I just stood there, taking it all in. Even though I had seen countless fantastical sights in my previous world—floating islands, massive dungeons, landscapes straight out of dreams—this felt different.

This felt like a childhood dream come true.

The entire street was alive with magic, a place where every brick and sign whispered of mystery. The shops, each more fascinating than the last, called out to me, tempting me to explore. Flourish and Blotts, Quality Quidditch Supplies, Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Sugarplum's Sweet Shop—names I had only ever read about or seen in memories, now standing before me in reality. And beyond them, countless other stores that had never been mentioned in books or movies, all bustling with life and curiosity.

I could spend an entire day here.

Wizards and witches moved about, some engaged in excited conversations, others admiring goods displayed in shop windows. A festive energy filled the air—there were celebrations underway, a collective joy that could be felt in every corner of the street. Voldemort's downfall had brought relief, and many stores were offering discounts in honor of his defeat. A second-hand robe shop had a sign boasting "Victory Sale! 30% Off on All Robes!" while Quality Quidditch Supplies displayed new broomsticks at discounted prices. The joy was infectious, weaving itself into the very atmosphere of the alley.

I realized my vision was blurring slightly.

I blinked, surprised to find tears forming in my eyes.

Even though I had seen all of this before through memories, reality had an entirely different weight. This wasn't just a place—it was magic itself, alive, breathing, and surrounding me. I was walking through a world that had once only existed in my imagination, a world countless Harry Potter fans had dreamed of experiencing. And yet, here I was, living it.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to regain composure. Stay focused. You have things to do.

With a deep breath, I pushed my emotions aside and turned my attention to the first task—getting a wand. My steps carried me toward Ollivanders, my heart still thrumming with a mix of excitement and anticipation. It wasn't long before the familiar, slightly dusty storefront came into view.

The shop was small and old, its display window covered in a thin layer of dust, giving it a mysterious, almost forgotten charm. I stepped forward and pushed the door open. A soft chime rang out as I entered.

Inside, the shop was just as I had seen in the movies—towering shelves crammed from floor to ceiling with countless wand boxes, each containing a potential partner for some wizard or witch. The scent of aged wood and parchment lingered in the air. The atmosphere was quiet, almost reverent, as if the wands themselves were waiting, listening.

I was still taking it all in when a soft yet firm voice called from the dimly lit corner of the shop.

"Ah… welcome, Mr. Chhimpa."

I turned sharply toward the voice.

There, emerging from the shadows, was Mr. Ollivander himself. He held a wand delicately in his hands, polishing it with practiced ease. His silver eyes locked onto mine, sharp and knowing.

"Yew wood, nine inches, dragon heartstring core," he murmured, his voice carrying a strange, almost nostalgic tone. "It feels like just yesterday that I placed that wand in your hands. Even then, you had the same curiosity, looking around my shop as if trying to commit every detail to memory."

He paused, studying me more closely now. The weight of his gaze sent an unsettling shiver down my spine, as if he were peering through me—past my flesh, past my mind, and straight into my very soul.

"But… something is different now," he continued, his voice softer, more contemplative. "Yes, something within you has changed."

A tense silence stretched between us before he finally sighed.

"I heard from Dumbledore about what happened to your family. A great tragedy, truly." His voice carried genuine sorrow, as if he had personally felt the weight of that loss. "Such cruelty… no one should have to endure that. Perhaps that change I sense in you is tied to that pain."

I remained silent, swallowing the lump in my throat.

Ollivander straightened slightly. "Your wand was broken, I assume? Unfortunate, but not surprising. You are here for a replacement."

His piercing gaze softened just a fraction. "Before we begin, I must remind you, Mr. Chhimpa—wands choose their wizards. There is very little chance that a new wand will feel as familiar or as natural as your last. But…" He offered me the smallest of smiles. "We can certainly try."

With that, he turned away, his fingers lightly brushing over the countless wand boxes as if searching for one that would answer his call.

A moment later, he pulled out a box and turned back toward me.

"Let's begin, shall we?"