The parchment felt thick between Ethan's fingers, heavier than paper should be. Real weight. Real texture.
The emerald ink caught the morning sunlight streaming through his bedroom window. He read the words for the third time, slower now, letting each one sink in.
Dear Mr. Drake, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
His heart pounded—not with the excitement of an eleven-year-old receiving his first letter from boarding school, but with the calculating intensity of a twenty-two-year-old man who'd just found the key to everything.
Magic. Real, actual magic.
He'd suspected something was different ever since he woke up. Ever since his adult consciousness merged with the child's memories.
He remembered being twenty-two. Remembered the sensation of dying. Remembered the disorienting shock of opening eyes in a young body.
For weeks, he'd thought he was going insane. Reincarnation? Possession? Some kind of neurological disorder?
But this letter made it real.
Witchcraft and Wizardry.
His father—Marcus Drake—wasn't just an eccentric who died in some tragic accident. He was a wizard. An actual wizard.
And Ethan had inherited that power.
The tawny owl at his window hooted impatiently, ruffling its feathers. Its amber eyes fixed on him with unsettling intelligence.
Not normal bird behavior. But then, nothing about this was normal.
Ethan's mind raced through possibilities. The letter mentioned a "Diagon Alley" for supplies, accessed through something called "The Leaky Cauldron" in London.
It listed books: The Standard Book of Spells, A History of Magic, Magical Theory.
There was a trunk. Robes. A wand.
A wand.
His pulse quickened. In his previous life, he'd been nobody special—a middle-class college student with a generic degree plan and an unremarkable future.
But here?
Here he was eleven years old in a world where magic existed, with the mind and cunning of an adult, and apparently a genetic gift for it.
The playing field had just tilted massively in his favor.
He studied the letter's requirements again. Students may bring an owl, cat, or toad.
He glanced at the owl. It looked back expectantly.
Downstairs, he heard his mother's voice—Catherine, now Catherine Thornton—talking on the phone. Probably to one of her society friends.
His stepfather was likely already at his office, making his millions in a world that had no idea magic existed just beneath its surface.
They were muggles. The letter had used that word: "muggle-born." His mother was a muggle.
But his father was a wizard. Which made him...
Ethan needed information. He needed to get to this Gringotts bank and access his father's vault. He needed to understand what he was walking into.
This world operated on rules he didn't know yet. Power structures he couldn't see.
But most importantly, he needed to be smart about this.
The owl hooted again, more insistently.