Few within the Ministry of Magic truly understood what lay beneath their feet.
Far below the bustling atrium—past the orderly offices, past the clatter of enchanted quills and the polite lies of bureaucracy—there existed a place the Ministry never spoke of aloud.
The Department of Mysteries.
The Space Chamber was usually the quietest corner of the Department of Mysteries. Here, the Unspeakables observed the slow, rhythmic dance of shimmering glass planets and the silent silver dust of distant nebulae. It was a room designed for observation, not action.
That changed in a heartbeat.
A crack appeared in the room.It did not tear space apart violently ,there was no explosion, no sound. Reality simply… failed.
From within that crack two figure appeared .Their presence bent the surrounding space, warping light and silence alike. Then, just as suddenly, they vanished.
The crack sealed shut, smooth and seamless, leaving no wound behind only residue. Faint, unfamiliar, and deeply wrong.
By the time the Department of Mysteries detected the anomaly, there was nothing to see.
Only traces that should not exist.
And the quiet certainty that someone had crossed into their world.
And did not wish to be found.
He sat in the dim corner of the restaurant, shoulders relaxed but eyes alive with an intensity few noticed. His hair was as dark as a moonless night, falling in smooth waves that brushed the high collar of his coat. It framed his face like shadow, sharp angles softened by the warm restaurant light.
But it was his eyes that gave him away.
They were a rare, deep violet like amethyst kissed by dusk so vivid that anyone who accidentally met his gaze felt a peculiar tug at their thoughts, as if his stare reached deeper than it should. Most people looked away quickly, unsettled by the unusual hue, but he hardly cared. Those eyes had seen far more than they revealed.
The waiter stopped beside his table, notepad in hand.
"Are you ready to order, sir?"
Atlas lifted his gaze slowly, violet eyes meeting the man's for just a moment—long enough to make the waiter hesitate without knowing why.
"Yes," Atlas said calmly.
The waiter cleared his throat. And the name?
There was a brief pause.
"Atlas Void," he replied.
The waiter's pen stalled for half a second before moving again. "Anything to drink, Mr. Void?"
"Water will be fine."
The waiter nodded and stepped away, shaking off a strange sensation he couldn't place, while Atlas leaned back into the shadows of the corner seat, already drifting back into thought.
It's been three years since I came to this world,a world of wizards, witches, and magic.
My memories from those first days are hazy, blurred at the edges. They're still there, present but distant, like something half-forgotten. No matter how hard I try, I can't see them clearly.
What I do remember is my past life.
Other worlds.
Stories that should have been fiction books, legends, games yet now I know they aren't. They never were. The longer I stay here, the clearer it becomes that those worlds exist beyond imagination.
They are real.
Even my abilities proved their reality.
I wasn't born without advantages.
Nor was I given just one miracle to rely on.
I have two.
The first is a small portal—an ability that allows me to tear open a fragment of space and reach into the multiverse itself. Through it, I can steal things at random: artifacts, materials, objects that do not belong to this world. What comes through is never predictable, and never ordinary.
The second is far more subtle.
My eyes.
With a single glance, I can identify what others cannot—objects, people, even things hidden beneath layers of magic and deception. Names, origins, values, dangers. Truth reveals itself whether it wants to or not.
As I was lost in thought, someone slid into the chair opposite me.
A girl with bushy hair familiar, yet different sat there, her presence impossible to ignore.
She was Hermione Granger.
Or, in my past life, people would have called her Emma Watson.
She was beautifulmore beautiful than I remembered, more beautiful than the "real" Hermione could ever be.
Perhaps it was the mana that flowed through her,wizards lived longer than Muggles, and their bodies aged more slowly. Her skin glowed faintly under the light, her eyes sharp and alert, radiating intelligence that demanded attention.
This world was not the one I had read about, nor the one I had seen on screen. It was something else entirely—a strange combination of Hogwarts as I knew it from the books, the movies, the new shows,games, and even hints of things I had never imagined. Yet here she was, real, and unmistakably herself.
She leaned forward, eyes bright with excitement. "Atlas, you have to come with me to the Quidditch World Cup! It's going to be amazing!"
I didn't look up from my drink. "Amazing, huh? And by amazing, you mean crowds, noise, and sticky pumpkin juice?"
She blinked, genuinely puzzled. "Sticky… pumpkin juice?"
"Exactly," I said. "And somehow you expect me to find that… amazing?"
Her curls bounced. "Well, yes! It's fun! You watch the matches, cheer, eat."
"Eat?" I raised an eyebrow. "Ah, right. Because watching people fly on broomsticks makes one ravenous."
She laughed. "You're impossible."
"Impossible?" I smirked. "I prefer… selective participation. And besides, I don't exactly scream in crowds."
Hermione leaned closer. "You don't have to scream. Just come. Watch. Enjoy. Please?"
I finally raised my gaze, letting the smirk curl properly. "Very well, Lady Hermione, do honor me with your guidance. Lead the way, and let us see if this spectacle you rave about is truly deserving of… my attention."
"Oh, wow," she said, arching a brow. "You finally decided to grace me with your company? I'll alert the tabloids."
I leaned back, folding my arms. "Careful. Flattery like that might get you elbowed in a crowd."
She laughed, shaking her head. "Elbowed? Please. I can handle myself. Unlike someone who apparently thinks crowds are a death sentence."
"Death sentence?" I repeated, mock horror in my tone. "I prefer selective discomfort. It's much classier."
"Selective discomfort," she repeated, clearly fighting a smile. "Right. And that's why you're going to love a stadium full of screaming fans?"
I let the smirk widen. "Oh, absolutely. Nothing screams entertainment like being sandwiched between a dozen people screaming at a ball."
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. "You really are impossible."
"And yet," I said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "you still invited me. I'm touched."
"You're welcome," she shot back, grin spreading. "Try not to fall asleep before the first match."
"Too late," I muttered under my breath, only loud enough for her to hear. "I was asleep the moment you asked."
She snorted. "Figures."