On the morning of July 26, 1991, Adrian sat at his bedroom desk wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxers.
On the desk sat a small pile of birthday money, an old, battered notebook filled with future information, several carefully trimmed newspaper cuttings about tech companies, and a calendar with Monday, July 29 circled in heavy red ink.
Beneath the circle were the words: VISIT STOCKBROKER.
Downstairs, the house was already awake.
Claire, his mother, was moving briskly around the kitchen preparing breakfast, while his father, Peter, was loudly arguing with the toaster because it had burned the bread again.
Adrian looked at the circled date and let out a long breath.
Finally.
On Monday, he could finally visit a stockbroker, open an account in his own name, and begin his master plan to become obscenely rich.
He leaned back in his chair and imagined the future.
He pictured never working a normal job, owning a sprawling house, and employing someone just to answer irritating phone calls.
He imagined having enough money to simply make problems disappear, and pretending all his suspiciously successful investments came from natural business instinct.
Adrian did not want to become the next Warren Buffett.
He wanted to become richer while working considerably less.
This was not Adrian’s first life.
He remembered dying in a world almost twenty years ahead of this one.
He remembered opening his eyes again as a baby and spending several confused months expecting a status screen, a medieval kingdom, or an elf maid to appear beside his cradle.
None of them came.
He got Surrey instead.
It had been a shock—waking up to nappies and Peter’s terrible lullabies—but Adrian’s initial disappointment changed once he understood the staggering value of his future knowledge.
He remembered enough of the next two decades to know that an ordinary life was optional.
More importantly, he had time to prepare.
Claire and Peter were his parents.
There was nothing temporary about this life.
He remembered Claire sitting beside his bed through a week-long fever when he was seven.
He remembered Peter teaching him how to ride a bicycle, the family holidays to the coast, and both of them applauding far too loudly during a primary school play where he had forgotten half his lines.
This was his home.
The memories of his old life simply gave him an unfair advantage.
Adrian opened his notebook.
The first page was a condensed map of the future: Microsoft, Apple, Amazon, Google, Bitcoin, and major market crashes.
Beside them were several technological inventions and cultural trends, with notes marked CHECK DATE scrawled in the margins because his memory was far from perfect.
He had maintained the notebook for years, treating it like a holy text.
He remembered the important companies, but he didn’t know every share price, the exact launch dates, every minor market fluctuation, or which British brokerage offered the best service.
He also had no idea how to explain his sudden financial confidence to his parents without sounding insane.
He looked at the small pile of cash on his desk.
He had saved every pound of birthday money and whatever he could scrape together from neighbourhood errands, but it wasn’t much.
Adrian possessed decades of future knowledge and enough starting capital to buy two decent dinners.
His plan was simple: begin with modest investments, prove that his choices consistently worked, and then convince Claire and Peter to trust him with more substantial funds.
Tomorrow was important because he could finally manage the account himself instead of asking his parents to approve every single action.
If the first few investments worked, everything else would become easier.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Something struck the bedroom window right as Adrian became lost in his billionaire fantasy.
He frowned, assuming an aggressive pigeon was attacking the glass again.
The sound repeated, sharper this time.
Adrian pushed back his chair, walked over, and opened the curtain.
Sitting on the windowsill was a large owl.
There was a parchment envelope clamped firmly in its beak.
Even through the glass, Adrian could see the green ink, the heavy red wax seal, and a large H surrounded by four familiar animals.
Adrian stopped moving.
The owl tapped the glass again, impatiently.
Slowly, Adrian unlatched the window and pushed it open.
The owl hopped inside, dropped the heavy letter onto his desk, and waited, clearly expecting payment.
Numbly, Adrian reached into a jar on his shelf and handed the bird a few nuts.
He looked at the Hogwarts crest, then back to the bird.
“Did you get lost for seven years?” The owl tilted its head.
“You had seven years to find Surrey,” Adrian pointed out.
The owl only ate another nut.
Adrian picked up the envelope, broke the wax seal, and unfolded the parchment.
Dear Mr Clarke, We are pleased to inform you that you have been offered admission to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
He read the first three lines twice.
He scanned the rest of the letter.
It contained his formal admission, the September 1st departure date, a note stating that a Hogwarts representative would visit to explain things since his parents were not part of the magical world, and a standard supply list.
What it did not contain was an explanation for why the letter had arrived now.
As far as Adrian remembered, Hogwarts admitted students at eleven.
He considered two possibilities: either the owl genuinely had lost his letter for seven years, or the story he remembered did not apply as neatly as he had assumed.
His initial excitement disappeared when he remembered what the actual school was like.
Hogwarts wasn’t a school.
It was an unlicensed magical zoo with homework.
The school’s safety record was insane.
A three-headed dog would be kept inside the castle.
A troll would be loose by Halloween.
A basilisk slept beneath the school, giant spiders infested the forest, a murderous diary was waiting for its victim, and Dementors would eventually surround the grounds.
Then there was Quirrell, who was either already working for Voldemort or only days away from becoming his personal transport.
Adrian glanced back at the calendar.
1991.
Harry Potter would begin Hogwarts this year.
That meant Quirrell’s problem was already beginning.
The Philosopher’s Stone plot was rapidly approaching.
The troll was only a few months away.
Voldemort was not a distant future problem; he was practically a guest speaker.
He had already died once.
Repeating the experience because a headmaster thought a three-headed dog was an acceptable door lock would be embarrassing.
Adrian held the heavy parchment letter directly over his bin.
He seriously considered throwing it away, closing the window, and continuing with his investment plan as if nothing had happened.
Then he paused.
He remembered accidental magic.
He had not knowingly performed magic before, but over the years, strange things had happened.
A broken toy had once miraculously repaired itself.
A playground bully’s trousers had torn open without anyone touching them.
A locked door had clicked open when Adrian desperately needed to get inside, and a glass had cracked during a particularly loud argument.
He had dismissed them as coincidences.
Now they looked more like warning signs.
He also remembered Obscurials from the films.
He didn’t know how accurate that cinematic information was in this reality, but refusing magical training could leave him unable to control it.
Refusing Hogwarts would not remove the magic.
It would only leave him trapped in a normal house, waiting to discover whether emotional stress made him explode.
Peter could barely survive the toaster.
He did not need a magically unstable son as well.
Adrian lowered the letter and sighed.
“I really don’t want to go.” A pink screen appeared directly in front of him.
[Pervert Wizard System Activated] [Host Detected] [Sexual Experience: Zero] [Ambition: Mediocre] [Harem Potential: High] Adrian waited for an explanation.
Nothing happened.
“You’re eighteen years late too?” [Activation required the host’s magical awakening.] Adrian looked at the Hogwarts letter.
At least that explained why both pieces of magical nonsense had arrived on the same morning.
“If you’re going to involve yourself,” Adrian said to the floating text, “I want wandless magic, a phoenix bloodline, a dimensional portal, and something powerful enough to kill Voldemort immediately.” [Request Denied.
Complete missions to earn rewards.] [Beginner Box Opened] Magical AppraisalSystem Inventory100 Pervert Points5 Universal Basic Spell Fragments3 Universal Basic Potion FragmentsItem: Cheap Pink Vibrator The vibrator appeared floating above the screen, slowly rotating in the air as though it were a legendary magical weapon.
Adrian looked at it.
“Of course.” He ignored the rotating plastic and tapped the spell fragments listed on the screen.
[Basic spells require 10 fragments.] [Universal fragments can be assigned to any spell or potion of the same grade.] [Stronger and cross-world magic require more.] Five universal fragments meant he was already halfway to a basic spell.
At least the system did not expect him to buy everything from its shop.
“Finally.
An answer.” Deciding to test his new tools, Adrian focused his attention on the owl still perched on his desk and activated Magical Appraisal.
[Barn Owl] [Current Mood: Impatient] [Immediate Desire: More nuts] [Opinion of Host: Slow] Adrian looked at the bird.
“I liked you better before the subtitles.” The owl clicked its beak and aggressively stole another nut from the jar.
The pink screen shifted, wiping the inventory text away to display his first actual task.
[MAIN MISSION: Go to Hogwarts] [Objective: Accept your admission and reach Hogwarts on September 1st.] [Reward: 10 Universal Basic Spell Fragments, 5 Universal Basic Potion Fragments, and 1 Random Common Skill.] [Failure Consequence: Your awakened magic will keep building without control.
It will form an Obscurus.
You will die.] Adrian read the final two words again.
“That isn’t a mission,” Adrian said.
“That’s mandatory education.” The system did not respond.
From downstairs, Claire’s voice echoed up the staircase.
“Adrian!
Your breakfast is getting cold!” Adrian looked at the notebook that was supposed to make him rich, the letter that might get him killed, and the owl currently emptying his nut jar.
The cheap pink vibrator continued rotating in the corner of his vision.
His financial empire had been delayed before breakfast.
With a heavy sigh, he picked up the letter and headed toward the bedroom door.
“Mum is going to think I joined a cult.”