"Master Theodore, the Cambridge Faculty of Literature have sent another invitation. They're eager to appoint you as a tenured professor."
"The publisher needs to reconfirm your signing tour. For your safety, they're hiring top-tier security."
"And your eleventh birthday is tomorrow. The Times and several London papers have already earmarked it for the front page."
The butler—immaculate suit, not a thread out of place—checked items off a leather folio as he spoke.
He wasn't addressing a minister or a business titan, but a boy who looked barely past ten.
This was Theodore Ashbourne, the most celebrated literary prodigy in Britain—perhaps the world.
And yes, Theodore was a transmigrant (lived once before).
From ordinary young man to this life; from orphanage cot to world-famous boy author—ten years had slipped by. If nothing went wrong, his life would read like a textbook. A century from now, school anthologies would still print his name.
Which is exactly when something went wrong.
Theodore eyed the fountain pen—filigree, satin shine, a tiny masterpiece. A tenth-birthday gift from the Queen. Supposedly forged with some rare alloy so it would never wear out—like a blessing that his talent wouldn't either. Maybe, they hinted, the next Shakespeare.
The pen wasn't a pen anymore; it was a twist of metal.
Theodore drew a long breath.
He remembered only this: yesterday the words wouldn't come. Frustration hissed under his skin; he'd wanted to snap the pen in half.
Instead, some invisible force had twisted it, and exhaustion had dragged him under.
Now, faced with the mangled pen, reality itself juddered.
"A dream?"
"A prank?"
Hypotheses flickered through his mind and died.
Dreams aren't this tactile.
A prank? Impossible. Only the butler entered his study, and the man was reliable to the point of holy writ.
"That leaves one explanation."
Theodore looked down at his hand.
The force that warped the pen was real.
Magic?
Telekinesis?
Something else altogether?
Was this a world with the supernatural?
The butler's voice trailed off. He recognised that look—Theodore in deep, untouchable thought. House rules were clear: when Theodore was thinking, no one interrupted. If you ruined a spark of inspiration and strangled the next masterpiece in its crib, no one breaks the silence when the engine starts.
Then Theodore remembered a date.
"It's 1991 this year… Why does that feel familiar?"
"My birthday… 1980."
He went to the shelves, pulled the 1980 file, and spread the clippings.The papers read like fantasy: crowds in robes, brooms commuting, and someone swore he'd seen a flying motorbike.
A line of lightning cut through his thoughts.
He finally understood where he was.
The world of Harry Potter.
He must have a witch-wizard's knack; the twisted pen was a surge of accidental magic.
As midnight tolled, Theodore's eleventh birthday arrived.
So did the sound of wings outside the window.
Theodore's heart skipped. "Open it," he told the butler.
In the next instant—amid the butler's startled exclamation—an owl swept into the study and dropped a curious envelope onto Theodore's desk.
The seal bore four beasts: lion, eagle, badger, and serpent. The butler stared, aghast.
"Master Theodore… is this some reader's prank?
"We've told the post to accept only authorised mail. Which lunatic thought an owl post would reach you? Allow me to dispose of it."
Theodore's expression turned solemn.
"That's enough, Flanders. I know exactly what this is. Leave the room and shut the door."
Butler Flanders hesitated, bowed, and withdrew.
Theodore broke the wax. The parchment unfolded; neat green ink met his eyes.
Dear Mr Theodore Ashbourne,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
A list of necessary books and equipment is enclosed.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
"A Hogwarts letter…"
He couldn't pretend not to be thrilled. It was the ticket into the wizarding world. Who'd read Harry Potter and not dreamed of magic?
If memory serves, late-blooming accidental magic usually means thinner talent. Neville Longbottom nearly got filed as a Squib before that last-minute bounce proved otherwise; Dumbledore and Grindelwald were showing sparks much earlier.
Theodore's first burst came the day before he turned eleven—barely in time for an acceptance letter. That didn't bode well.
He grimaced.
"Forget challenging Dumbledore and checkmating Voldemort. Time to recalibrate."
"Fine. I'll keep my head down. No heroic nonsense. Be a polite nobody. Spend most of my time being a respectable man of letters."
"…Unless a system drops out of the sky."
He lifted the Hogwarts letter again.
A soft chime rang in his ear.
[System online]
Theodore jolted, delight flaring. A system? Now?
Was it bound to the acceptance letter?
Arcane Scholar System? Potioneer System? Alchemy System? He wasn't picky—
[Congratulations, host. You are now a disciple of the Chan Sect. The Primordial Networking System is bound.]
Theodore froze.
"…"
"Come again?"
"This is the wizarding world. What on earth is a Primordial Networking System doing here?!"