Isaac slipped the three crisp ten-pound notes into his pocket and started folding up his stall.
Two chairs.
One small folding table.
A hand-painted sign.
That was it.
Mrs.
Granger reached out to help, then froze when she saw how effortlessly the boy lifted everything.
Strong for his age, or just used to doing things alone?
“Don’t worry, Mrs.
Granger.
You’ll have your answer tomorrow.” He walked off before she could answer.
Only after his platinum hair vanished down the street did Mrs.
Granger blink back to reality.
“Hermione…” She turned to her daughter.
Was that boy really one of her kind?
Had he gotten a Hogwarts letter too?
Hermione wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
She was eleven.
Brains tend to lock up when your whole world gets rewritten in one afternoon.
Then her sharp little mind spotted the opening.
“So we just have to wait until tomorrow, right, Mom?
That’s all?” Hermione’s future success in the wizarding world felt impossibly far away.
But tomorrow?
That was only hours away.
Thirty hours at most.
The perfect test of Isaac’s prophecy.
“Yes, Hermione.
Let’s go home.” They found Mr.
Granger pacing the living room like a man possessed, face flushed with the same stunned excitement he’d worn when they first realized their daughter might be a witch.
“Darling, they wrote back!
Same as before—an owl delivered it straight to the house.
I even gave the poor thing some beef jerky!
The letter says a Hogwarts professor is coming to see us tomorrow morning!” “Mom, tomorrow—it’s tomorrow!” Hermione’s eyes lit up, then clouded with sudden worry.
What if every magical kid came with special talents?
She didn’t feel anything special at all.
How the hell was she supposed to keep up?
“So you spent the whole afternoon waiting for a Muggle and a Muggle-born witch?” An old man had appeared beside Isaac without a sound.
Thin frame, but sharp as a blade.
Same platinum hair.
Same mismatched eyes.
“Don’t tell me you couldn’t see that little girl’s future, Gellert.
She’s going to be the next Minister of Magic.” Isaac’s tone was light, almost teasing.
Zero respect for the title.
“Minister of Magic.
How thrilling.” Grindelwald put on a show of awe, then let it collapse into a dry laugh.
He’d broken more Ministers in his prime than he could count.
At his age he wasn’t about to genuflect for some future placeholder.
“Isaac, that future you described doesn’t include you.” “Please.
I’m not spending my life pushing paper at the Ministry.
What if I just stay at Hogwarts and take Dumbledore’s job instead?” Grindelwald barked a short laugh, eyes glittering with something unreadable.
Then his form dissolved into nothing.
Isaac was used to the old man’s sudden comings and goings.
The magic surge that had awakened his gift as a child had also let him see Gellert Grindelwald.
According to the ancient seer, two prophets were speaking across the river of time.
Grindelwald insisted Isaac would be the one to visit him first at Nurmengard.
The connection had given Isaac his first real glimpse into the wizarding world.
Isaac Waldore carried one secret even Grindelwald didn’t know: he was a transmigrator.
In his last life magic had only existed in books and movies.
When he broke the mystery of the womb this time, he woke up with the same prophetic talent as the old man.
He had big plans for this second chance.
First step: survive to Hogwarts and grow up.
An eleven-year-old couldn’t do much else.
He reached the house—his house now—and the old butler was already waiting at the door.
“Master Isaac.
Welcome home.” “Good evening, Anthony.” The butler had come with the property.
At first Isaac assumed he was one of Grindelwald’s old followers.
Turned out he was just an ordinary man who’d fallen under the dark lord’s charisma and sworn lifelong service.
He’d never expected his chance until Isaac appeared and changed everything.
Isaac stepped inside.
The sound of wings made both him and Anthony turn at the same time.
A large owl was diving straight for them, a thick cream envelope clutched tight in its talons.
The Hogwarts acceptance letter had arrived.