"Mmmph… five more minutes…"
That was the only sound I managed before BOOM—a soft weight collided with my stomach, knocking the breath out of me.
"WAKE UP, BROTHER!!" a high-pitched voice shrieked in delight as small fists pounded gleefully on my chest. "It's your birthday!"
I groaned dramatically and cracked one eye open. Sure enough, a mop of messy blue curls and two bright sapphire eyes were grinning down at me.
"Eva…" I wheezed. "Did you really have to jump on me again?"
"Yes!" she beamed with zero remorse. "It's the fastest way to wake you! And today's special!"
Meet Evelyn Whitmore—my little sister, chaos incarnate, and the only person in this world I've allowed to use me as a trampoline. She was three years old and the most spirited, stubborn, and lovable child I'd ever known. And also the only person in this house who didn't care about proper posture, noble grace, or magical legacy. To her, I wasn't William of House Whitmore.
I was just her brother.
This wasn't the first time she had launched herself at me like a missile. In fact, this was practically our morning ritual.
Still blinking sleep from my eyes, I sat up with a stretch, Eva bouncing happily beside me. "Alright, alright. I'm awake. Happy now?"
---
It's been five years. This world—so vivid, so strange—still didn't feel quite real. Magic surged through my veins now, unfamiliar yet exhilarating. A second chance… one I never expected.
And with it came a name. William Whitmore.
The name alone carried weight. I had read enough about House Whitmore to know what it meant. One of the most influential wizarding families in Britain, known for generations of leadership, unwavering loyalty, and fierce resistance to dark forces. They had stood against Grindelwald, defied Voldemort openly, and never once wavered from their ideals. Their contributions to magical governance, financial support during wartime, and unwavering alliance with the right side of history had earned them immense respect.
My parents are… remarkable in ways I couldn't have imagined.
My father, Lord Alaric Whitmore, is the perfect image of an ideal noble. With golden hair that falls in elegant waves and calm eyes like polished amber, he carries himself with quiet authority. He is an Elder of the Wizengamot and serves on the Hogwarts Board of Governors.He isn't a duelist or Auror, but there's strength in the way he speaks—his voice calm but commanding, the kind that silences rooms without shouting.
Then there's my mother, Lady Seraphina Whitmore. She's... well, she's a force of nature. With long waves of striking blue hair and eyes like winter skies, she's both beautiful and fierce. As an accomplished Auror holding a prestigious post in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, her presence commands respect even among the most hardened veterans. She's sharp, quick-witted, and brave—often away on missions, yet never truly distant. When she returns, she lights up the manor with stories she won't finish and eyes that scan every corner for danger before letting herself rest. She's warmth wrapped in fire—stern, but never cold.
---
When I made it downstairs, the long table was already set for a grand breakfast. The smell of cinnamon and butter hung in the air.
"Good morning, birthday boy," my father said with a small smile.
"Mama made pancakes!" Eva added, like I could possibly forget.
"Mmm, happy birthday, Willy," my mother said teasingly as she kissed the top of my head. I winced.
"I told you not to call me that…"
But she only laughed, flicking her wand to float a plate my way. I didn't complain.
"We'll be having a celebration tonight," my father said between sips of coffee. "Just a few families from the Circle—nothing extravagant."
"Wear something presentable," Mother added with a smirk. "No library robes."
I mumbled something about "parties being overrated" and slid off my chair as soon as breakfast was done. Eva tried to follow me, but I promised to show her her birthday gift from last month again after I finished reading.
And so, I made my way to the library—my true kingdom.
---
Despite my age, I'd already buried myself in books. Magical theory, pureblood history, early spellcraft—anything I could get my hands on. I might not have a wand yet, but I wasn't about to let that stop me.
Wandless magic fascinated me. Rare, difficult, and elusive—it was everything I shouldn't be able to do at my age. But if this was my second life, then I wasn't going to wait until eleven like every other wizard. I had already started a year ago, training my focus through meditation, solving intricate magical riddles, and strengthening my mental discipline.
The books had been vague—more folklore than instruction—but one thing was clear: wandless magic required more than talent. It demanded will. Control. Mastery over the magic flowing within me.
And I would master it.
---
That night, the manor came alive with celebration. Silver and gold ribbons floated in midair, the chandeliers glowed a little brighter, and the drawing room was filled with politely smiling witches and wizards in fine robes. A typical pureblood gathering—formal, elegant, and slightly dull.
I was paraded around like a prized heir, offered too many sweets by older witches, and had my head patted by men I barely knew. Eva snuck snacks into her dress pockets and whispered commentary into my ear that made it very difficult not to laugh.
Still, despite the pomp and polish, I couldn't help but feel… content.
This wasn't the life I'd imagined back in that cold, ordinary world. This was something far more vivid. Far more magical.
And I had only just begun.
---
It had been several years since I was reborn into the wizarding world as the heir of the Whitmore family. Now five years old, I looked like any other noble child from a prestigious pureblood house—polite, observant, and well-mannered. But what no one knew, not even my parents, was that I carried memories of a completely different life. A life from another world.
I hadn't told anyone—not because I didn't trust them, but because I wasn't ready. How could I possibly explain that my soul belonged to another world? That I had once been Tony—a quiet, lonely boy who had dreamt of magic every day of his life? For now, that truth was mine alone.
Still, magic was no longer a fantasy. It was real, flowing through my body like a second heartbeat. But as a child without a wand, I couldn't channel it the way others could. That didn't stop me. In secret, I made a promise to myself—to learn wandless magic. To become strong enough on my own, before Hogwarts, before anyone could judge or label me.
And so, in the quiet of the Whitmore estate, while everyone thought I was simply reading or playing, I trained.
I began with the basics: meditation. I needed control—not just over my body, but my thoughts. I read everything I could about magical theory, about how magic was tied to intention and focus. So I spent hours sitting still in my room or the hidden corners of the library, emptying my mind, trying to sense the magic in my blood.
I learned to slow my breathing, to concentrate, to listen to the faint pulse of something ancient and powerful inside me. And with time, I could feel it—not like a wave, but like a gentle stream, flowing quietly beneath the surface.
But feeling it was one thing. Using it was another.
I tried summoning objects, lighting candles, even changing the color of a quill. Nothing happened. My body could feel the magic, but it scattered in every direction when I tried to use it—like trying to catch mist with my fingers. That's when I realized something crucial: that was why wands existed. Wands served as a conduit, focusing scattered magical energy and directing it with precision.
So I made a new goal: concentrate magic into my fingertips—my own version of a "wand." I imagined magic flowing not through my whole body, but through a single channel, gathering slowly at the tips of my fingers. It was frustrating. It took months just to feel even a tingle.
Years passed.
Between studies, etiquette lessons, and time with Evelyn, I practiced in secret. Sometimes by candlelight late at night. Sometimes in the cold quiet of early morning. No one noticed. I kept it that way.
By the time I turned nine, my mind had grown sharp and calm. My ability to control the magic inside me had improved, though I still couldn't perform a single spell. But I refused to give up.
And then—one rainy evening in the library—it happened.
I had chosen the most basic charm I knew: Wingardium Leviosa. I focused on a small leather-bound book resting on the table. My mind was calm, magic gathered at my fingertips, the incantation whispered through clenched teeth.
"Wingardium… Leviosa."
For a moment, nothing.
Then, the book trembled.
My eyes widened. I clenched my hand tighter, willing the magic to obey me.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The book slowly lifted into the air, hovering shakily a few inches above the table. My heart raced. My fingers tingled. I was doing it. The spell lasted no more than ten seconds before the book dropped back onto the table with a soft thud—but that didn't matter.
I had done it.
After nearly four years of silent effort, I had performed magic. Without a wand.
A smile stretched across my face—one of pride, of quiet triumph. Not as Tony, the boy forgotten by the world. But as William Whitmore—the boy who would shape his own path in the wizarding world.
And this… was only the beginning.