The last thing I remember from my old life is the patter of rain on my jacket and the glow of my e-reader, pulling me deep into A Storm of Swords. I was a nobody, really—Alex, a guy with a desk job, a cramped apartment, and a love for stories about dragons and scheming lords. Life wasn't bad, just… predictable. Until it wasn't. A sharp pain in my chest, like someone had yanked a wire tight. The world spun, streetlights blurring into a kaleidoscope, and then—nothing. No warning. No grand exit. Just a flicker, like a book slamming shut.
Then, everything exploded back into being.
Pain hit first, a bone-deep ache that wasn't mine. It was paired with a grief so raw it felt like my heart was being carved out. Not my grief, though—not for late-night takeout or a missed promotion. This was something bigger, sharper. A memory slammed into me: a flash of red light, a woman's cackling laugh, and Sirius—my Sirius—falling through a shimmering archway, his face calm, almost peaceful, as he slipped away. I'd dove after him, no hesitation, no thought. Just a desperate need to pull him back.
My name wasn't Alex anymore. It was Harry Potter.
My eyes flew open. No hospital ceiling, no afterlife glow. Just cold, jagged stone biting into my cheek, like I'd face-planted on a frozen dragon's hide. The air was sharp, salty, with a weird, musky edge that made my skin prickle. Somewhere in the distance, a low, eerie horn wailed, not like anything I'd ever heard. Where the hell was I?
A groan snapped me out of it. Sirius.
I scrambled over, my body moving too smoothly, too easily, like it wasn't entirely mine. He was sprawled a few feet away, his face pale, those Azkaban shadows still clinging to his cheekbones. But he was breathing. Relief hit so hard it nearly knocked me over, Harry's grief flooding me again—grief for a godfather I'd only just gotten back. But Alex's brain was screaming too: This isn't the Ministry. This isn't right.
Then it happened. A spark inside me, like a dam bursting. No, not a spark—a supernova.
It started in my chest, a rush of power so vast it felt like I'd swallowed a star. My mind, a jumbled mess of Alex's late-night reading and Harry's war-torn life, snapped into focus. Every memory—every page of A Song of Ice and Fire, every spell Harry had ever cast—was suddenly clear, organized, perfect. I could see it all: the Dursleys' cupboard, the Battle of Hogwarts, the exact wording of Tyrion's speech at Blackwater. It was like my brain had been upgraded to a supercomputer.
My body wasn't far behind. The bruises from the fight, the ache of years of hunger—they melted away. My muscles felt strong, precise, like I could run a marathon or thread a needle without breaking a sweat. I wasn't just healed; I was rebuilt. Stronger. Flawless.
Then came the kicker: knowledge. Not just facts, but understanding. I could feel the magic in the air, wilder than anything a wand could tame. I knew this place, not from Harry's world but from Alex's. The black stone under me, the brutal wind, that musky scent of something primal. I'd read about this island—Skagos, the forgotten rock of Westeros, home to cannibals and unicorns, a place even the Starks barely touched.
A cold clarity settled over me, like a switch flipping. Panic tried to rise, but something—call it a Gamer's Mind—smothered it with logic. The pieces clicked: the stone, the sea, the horn. This wasn't some afterlife. The Veil hadn't killed us.
It had dumped us on Skagos.