When I opened my eyes, everything around me was unfamiliar. The warmth of the magical globe that had kept me alive was gone, and now all I could feel was the dense, humid air of an ancient forest. The trees were colossal, towering like living monoliths, their twisted roots coiling around one another as if trying to keep secrets buried beneath the soil. The sunlight filtered weakly through thick canopies, casting eerie shadows on the forest floor.
I stepped cautiously out of the globe, which had vanished as soon as I touched solid ground. I could still feel its protective magic lingering in my bones, but it was faint, like the echo of a memory.
Everything felt different.
The very air was heavy with a raw, untamed magic—nothing like the refined and structured magic I had studied for years at Hogwarts. This magic didn't obey logic or ritual. It pulsed, wild and alive, as if the world itself were breathing.
Not far from where I landed, I saw it: a blood-red stone, gleaming amid the moss and roots. It pulsed softly with power, illuminating the surrounding ground with an ominous glow. I didn't need to be told what it was. I knew it immediately.
The Philosopher's Stone.
But how had it ended up here, outside the ritual chamber?
I approached cautiously and knelt beside it. Its heat radiated up into my hand, not scorching, but powerful—dangerous. The glow intensified as I touched it. The Stone was whole, perfect, humming with the success of the ritual that nearly cost me my life. Somehow, it had been ejected with me through the dimensional rift.
I held it tightly in one hand and took a deep breath. Something was wrong.
I pulled my wand—Asus, my loyal companion—and cast a diagnostic spell on myself. The spell, Diagnos Revelare, glowed weakly and then hissed, as if struggling to function. Even the most basic enchantments were different here. I adjusted the incantation, channeling more raw intent, and the spell finally flared to life.
The results were disturbing.
My magical core had stabilized, but I had changed. The journey through the rift had altered me. My connection to magic now resonated with this world's energy—a more primal, instinctual force that didn't respond well to structured incantations. My magic was still intact, but different.
It would take time to adapt.
With no idea where—or when—I was, I began walking. The forest stretched endlessly. Every so often, I would hear distant howls or the flap of wings. There was life here, old and predatory. I couldn't afford to linger.
After what felt like hours, I emerged from the forest and saw smoke in the distance. A village.
I approached cautiously, casting a minor invisibility charm to avoid detection. I needed answers.
As I crept closer, I observed the villagers—simple folk, wearing leather and bronze, some with painted faces. Their speech was rough and unfamiliar, but I recognized enough to know it was an ancient form of the Common Tongue.
I found a man sitting by a fire, sharpening a blade. I leaned close, removed the invisibility spell silently, and cast Legilimens.
The man jerked slightly, but I quickly took control, diving into his memories.
Images flooded my mind: hunts in the forest, rituals to nameless gods, and stories—oral legends—about strange beings called the Children of the Forest, giants in the north, and something called "The Wall."
The Wall?
I focused.
Yes. The Wall already existed. A colossal barrier of ice in the far north, built long ago to keep out terrors from beyond. These people believed it was built by someone they called "Bran the Builder."
Then came more revelations: these were the First Men, the original inhabitants of this land. The Andals had not yet arrived. There was no Iron Throne, no Targaryens, no Westerosi kingdoms—just scattered tribes of warriors and ancient magics.
I broke the spell gently and stepped back. The man slumped slightly, confused. He would remember nothing.
I vanished again into the trees.
So… this was Westeros.
And I had arrived more than 500 years before the Andal invasion. During the Age of Heroes—long before the events of the books I remembered. The stories were only whispers in this time.
The world was primitive. Beautiful. Deadly.
I traveled for weeks, passing through forests, hills, and rivers. I saw the Children of the Forest from afar—small, green-skinned beings who vanished the moment they sensed my presence. I didn't push my luck.
I passed barrow-mounds and ruins carved with runes of the Old Tongue. In the Riverlands, I watched as tribes fought over territory with bronze swords and obsidian daggers. The Faith of the Seven did not yet exist. The Old Gods ruled here, worshiped in sacred groves by silent men who wore bark and antlers.
Everywhere I went, I studied. I learned.
But I also understood one terrifying truth: magic here came at a cost.
Unlike the world of Harry Potter, where magic could be channeled through knowledge, training, and will, this world demanded payment. Blood. Sacrifice. Pain.
To cast even the simplest spell here with the raw energy of this realm often required offerings—animal blood, burnt flesh, or binding deals with ancient spirits. And yet, this magic was alive. It was woven into the land, into the trees and stones and winds.
I needed to adapt.
I began experimenting cautiously, using the Philosopher's Stone to stabilize my spells. With it, I could fuel incantations without the usual cost, at least in part. But even it had its limits here. The Stone wasn't made for this world. Eventually, it would need to be remade—reborn in this new magical paradigm.
I spent time in solitude, meditating and developing new ways to weave spells. I didn't teach anyone. Not yet. The people here were not ready, and I wasn't sure they could be trusted with what I knew.
But I started leaving signs. Symbols. Carvings in stone. Silent testaments to my presence, for those with eyes to see.
This was not the world I had known.
But it would become mine.
Eventually.