James stood in his bedroom on the morning of September 1st, buttoning up a comfortable shirt and pulling on dark jeans. Today was the day. After ten months of waiting and learning everything he could about the magical world, he was finally going to Hogwarts.
He caught his reflection in the mirror and allowed himself a small smile. Eleven years old, almost twelve. Average looking with black hair and grey eyes. Nothing special on the surface. But underneath, decades of experience from a life lived before.
The past ten months had been extraordinary.
The morning after their Diagon Alley shopping trip, all three Actons had spent the entire Sunday going through the books they'd purchased. It would have continued into the next week, but Monday arrived with the harsh reality of work obligations.
For the first time in years, both his parents had been reluctant to leave for their jobs, wanting nothing more than to continue exploring this magical new world.
But James had no such obligations. Having already completed his A-Levels at age ten, he'd spent the past ten months in a frenzy of magical study that would have impressed even Hermione Granger.
His eidetic memory made it almost unfair. He only needed to read each book once, and every word, every diagram, every theoretical concept was permanently etched into his mind. By February, he'd read through every book they'd purchased. He made connections between different magical texts, seeing how spell theory related to potion-making, how charms principles affected transfiguration works.
They'd returned to Diagon Alley three more times, but the steep prices at Flourish and Blotts had forced them to explore alternatives. His father would have happily spent more money, but the currency exchange limit was absolute. One hundred Galleons per year, no exceptions.
So they'd discovered the second-hand bookshops tucked away in Diagon Alley's quieter corners. Dusty shops with creaking floors and proprietors who remembered when Dumbledore was young. The books were older, some dating back a century or more, but they were treasures. Older editions of spell books contained spells that had fallen out of favor or been deemed too dangerous for modern texts. Ancient potions manuals described techniques that had been simplified or abandoned. Historical texts on magical theory that predated modern understanding.
James had devoured them all.
The theoretical knowledge transformed his practical magic. Before, when he'd thought it was telekinesis, he'd been using raw power, brute force applications of magic that exhausted him quickly. But the books taught him efficiency, taught him how to channel magic through intent and visualization rather than sheer will.
His summoning charm was the perfect example. Before, he could only summon objects he could see, using pure magical force to pull them toward him. Now, after understanding the theory, he could summon objects from other rooms, from upstairs, from places he couldn't see. The spell worked through magical connection and intent, not line of sight.
And he'd discovered something fascinating. Magic was like a muscle. The more he used it, the more exhausted he became, but also the faster he recovered and the more he could do the next time. The magical theory texts confirmed this. Most wizards plateaued at average levels because they fell into routines after graduating. They used only the spells they needed, when they needed them, and their magical capacity stagnated.
James had no intention of being average.
He practiced until exhaustion became a daily occurrence. Household spells from a book called "101 Household Charms Every Wizard Should Know" became his first testing ground. His parents had loved watching him clean dishes with a wave of his wand, or make furniture rearrange itself, or cause laundry to fold itself into neat stacks.
He knew the Trace would activate once he started at Hogwarts, preventing him from using magic outside school until he was seventeen. So he was taking full advantage of these last months of freedom to entertain his parents.
Charms came naturally to him. Impossibly and wonderfully natural. The magic flowed through his wand like water, responding to his intent with barely any effort. "Lumos" variants in different colours and intensities, once he figured out how to alter wavelengths to light up different colours. Charms that could make a flock of butterflies appear and dance to a tune.
Transfiguration was harder, requiring more concentration and precision. But he'd practised methodically, starting with simple changes and texture alterations.
Now he could easily transfigure anything book-sized into any form he'd seen before. Turning a book into a perfect replica of a teacup, a shoe, a throw pillow.
He most recently was working on transfiguring the dining table chairs with as much detail as possible. His parents would inform him of their preferred style of chair for the breakfast meal and he'd get on to transfiguration while his parents cooked breakfast. Usually their weekday morning meals were made to be efficient with both parents taking turns but now a days they all wake up to prepare an hour early so they can have time to watch the chair changing show while cooking.
Everyday during breakfast he'd transfigure three chairs into different styles. Sometimes a a chesterfield, a lounge chair, once his dad asked for a rocking chair and ate breakfast rocking back and forth while his mother glared at his dad from her throne.
His father had helped him source mice from a reptile prey supplier, allowing him to practice animal transfiguration as well. Turning a mouse into a water goblet and back again, being careful to ensure no permanent damage. It was delicate, dangerous work, but essential for understanding the principles.
And then there was his Patronus.
He'd spent weeks on that spell, following the instructions in "Advanced Defensive Magic" by Quintus Trimble. The theory was clear: focus on a powerfully happy memory, channel that emotion through the wand, speak the incantation with absolute conviction.
His first attempts had produced nothing but silver wisps like before. But he'd persisted, dredging up memories from both lives. The moment his Hogwarts letter arrived. His parents' unconditional love. The feel of magic flowing through him for the first time. The day he'd gotten his wand.
The breakthrough had come in March. He'd cast the spell in his bedroom, focusing on the memory of his mother hugging him after learning about his magic, telling him she'd love him no matter what.
Silver light had erupted from his wand, coalescing into a magnificent owl. Large with sweeping wings. It had circled his room once before fading, leaving him exhausted but triumphant. His parents had been delighted to see this wonderful piece of magic when he showed it to them.
An owl. It suited him, he thought.
He practised the spell daily until he could do it non verbally, now he was still practising but aiming to get it done wand less.
Spatial magic had fascinated him endlessly. The theory behind expansion charms, undetectable extension spells, and dimensional anchoring was complex and beautiful. He dreamed of one day creating his own trunk like Newt Scamander's, with entire ecosystems existing in pockets of folded space.
But he didn't practice any of the actual spells. Spatial magic was extraordinarily dangerous. One miscalculation could create a dimensional rift, collapse space on itself, or tear space in ways that couldn't be fixed. This was the Harry Potter universe, not some cultivation novel where protagonists survived impossible mistakes through plot armor. His golden finger was eidetic memory, not invincibility.
Arrogance killed wizards. He had no intention of being one of them.
He'd also gotten subscriptions to two wizarding newspapers. The Daily Prophet arrived every morning, though he took its reporting with several grains of salt. More useful was the International Wizarding Herald, which provided news from magical communities worldwide.
Last week, he'd made a trip to a Muggle stationery shop and bought supplies. Notebooks, journals, ballpoint pens, and fountain pens. Parchment and quills were traditional, but for his personal studies, modern convenience won out. He could write faster with a pen, and notebooks were easier to organise than loose parchment scrolls.
His parents had also taken him shopping for casual clothes. Robes were required for classes, but weekends and free time allowed regular clothing. He now had a wardrobe of comfortable jeans, shirts, and sweaters that would serve him well during his year at Hogwarts.
"James!" His father's voice called from downstairs. "Ready?"
"Coming!"
He took one last look around his room. His trunk sat on his bed, packed and ready. Inside were his robes, his books, his supplies, everything he'd need for the year ahead. He'd shrunk it this morning, and slipped it into his pocket.
Downstairs, his parents were waiting in the entryway, both dressed nicely for what they were treating as a significant family occasion. Yara wore a elegant pant suit in deep blue, her hair pulled back neatly. Michael had chosen a grey suit, looking every inch the successful lawyer.
"Ready for the big day?" his father asked, though his smile was slightly strained.
"Yes," James said simply.
They climbed into Michael's Mercedes, and he drove them through London's morning traffic toward King's Cross Station. James sat in the back, watching the familiar streets pass by, feeling the weight of the moment.
Traffic was heavier than expected. They arrived at King's Cross later than planned, finding parking with some difficulty in the busy station car park.
"At least we don't need a trolley," Michael said as they entered the station. "No trunk to cart around, no pet cage."
They made their way through the crowded station toward platforms nine and ten. King's Cross was bustling with travellers, everyone moving with purpose toward their various destinations.
Between platforms nine and ten was a solid brick wall, unremarkable and completely ordinary to anyone who didn't know what to look for.
"So Professor McGonagall said you have to run through this wall?" Yara asked, eyeing it sceptically despite everything they'd seen over the past ten months.
Michael approached and placed his hand against the bricks. "It's solid."
"Let me try," James said.
He reached out, and his hand passed through the brick as if it were smoke. The barrier recognized him as magical, accepting his passage.
"Grab on," he said, offering each parent a hand.
They each took one of his hands, and together, they ran at the wall.
The transition was instantaneous. One moment they were in the usual King's Cross Station. The next, they emerged onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, stumbling slightly at the abrupt change.