London, 2024
The rain started to fall, but it wasn't the clean, refreshing kind. It was a dirty London drizzle, mixing with the copper-tang smell of blood and the grime of the abandoned warehouse district. Perfect. Just the ambiance Alexender Hunter would have picked for his own death, if he'd been given a menu of options.
He was sitting against a cold brick wall, a custom-made combat knife buried to the hilt in his gut. Not ideal. Around him, in a grotesque circle of failure and violence, were the reasons for the knife. A hundred reasons, more or less. Give or take a dozen. He'd lost count after the first forty.
Well, this is a right mess, he thought, his internal monologue weirdly calm despite the whole… dying thing.
His once-sharp suit was now just red rags. His knuckles were pulp. He'd used everything tonight: the fluid, bone-breaking throws of Aikido to send thugs flying into each other; the savage, shin-shattering power of Muay Thai to clear a path; the precise, lethal strikes of Karate to make sure they stayed down. He'd even disarmed a guy with a pipe and used it to demonstrate his surprisingly effective Tonfa skills. It had been a beautiful, chaotic symphony of violence.
But symphonies need a lot of musicians. And eventually, even the best conductor gets overwhelmed.
One lucky idiot, hiding under a pallet of boxes, had gotten in a lucky shot with a thrown knife as Alex was catching his breath. The boss's son, probably. Trying to earn daddy's approval. The little twerp was now part of the decor, his neck at an angle that would make a chiropractor faint.
The rain pattered on the puddles of blood, diluting his empire into a pinkish soup. At twenty-three, he'd been the youngest, most feared crime lord in Europe. Not bad for an orphanage kid. He'd built his gang, the "Midnight Ravens," from nothing. He'd made them the strongest on the continent through a combination of terrifying martial prowess, ruthless strategy, and a face that made people say, "He should be a model, not a mobster." He'd hated that. Now, he kinda wished he'd taken the modeling gig. Probably less stabby.
He closed his eyes, the world fading. His last thought wasn't of his money, or his power, or his reputation.
It was of them. The old men. The ones in the shadows who'd decided his little empire was getting too big for its boots. The ones who'd sent this army of cannon fodder to wear him down.
"Those damn old bastards…" he whispered, blood bubbling on his lips. "If I… if I had another shot… in a new life… I'd kill every last one of you…"
The rain was the last thing he heard.
London, 1879
The first thing he became aware of was that the rain had stopped. The second was that the searing, gut-twisting pain was gone. The third was that he was very, very small.
Alexender Hunter's eyes snapped open. He was staring up at a water-stained, wooden ceiling, not a rusted iron warehouse roof. He was lying on a thin, lumpy mattress that smelled faintly of mildew and weak soap. The air was cold, but it was a damp cold, not the chill of a rainy night.
"…the hell?" he tried to say, but it came out as a reedy, high-pitched croak.
He pushed himself up. His hands were tiny. Soft. Uncalloused. He looked down at a body swimming in a rough, grey, woolen nightshirt. He wiggled his toes. Tiny toes.
A wave of pure, undiluted panic, an emotion he hadn't felt since he was a literal child, threatened to overwhelm him. He took a deep, shuddering breath, falling back on the mental discipline of a thousand fights. Breathe. Assess. Adapt.
He was in a long, narrow dormitory room filled with simple metal-framed beds. Other small shapes were sleeping in them. A single, guttering candle provided the only light.
He was a kid. A little kid.
He scrambled out of bed, his small feet cold on the rough wooden floor, and stumbled toward a small, grimy window. The reflection staring back at him was a punch to the soul. It was him, but from a lifetime ago. A mop of messy brown hair, a pair of stupidly large, bright green eyes that looked almost too big for his face. He looked… five. Maybe.
This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't a dream. The sheer, tactile reality of the splintery windowsill under his fingers was undeniable.
"Master Hunter!" a sharp, nasal voice cut through the silence. A tall, severe-looking woman with a face like a pinched prune stood in the doorway, holding a lamp. "Back in bed this instant! Or it's no supper for you tomorrow!"
Alex, the man who had once made hardened enforcers weep with a look, instinctively flinched. The body had memories this brain didn't. This was Mrs. Grouse, the matron of the Wool's Orphanage. And she was a nightmare.
He scurried back to his bed, his mind reeling. He'd done it. He'd gotten his "other shot." He was in a new life. And it was, so far, a massive downgrade.
The next few years were a masterclass in frustration. Being Alexander Hunter, five-year-old orphan in Victorian London, was like being a Formula One driver forced to pedal a tricycle with a missing wheel.
He had the knowledge, the cunning, and the will of a crime lord. He also had the bladder control and legal standing of a child. It was infuriating.
But Alexender Hunter did not quit. He adapted. His first order of business: intelligence. He quickly learned his name was still Alexender Hunter. He'd been born in 1874. It was now 1879. He was in the same city, just about fifty years before his time. The orphanage was a bleak, joyless place, but it was full of resources. The most important resource? Other kids.
He couldn't run a gang, not yet. But he could run a… collective. A startup. A very, very small-scale operation.
It started simply. He'd see a bigger boy bully a smaller one for his bread crust. Old Alex would have broken the bully's fingers. New Alex, aged six, walked up to the smaller boy later.
"Hey," little Alex said, his voice still too cute for the menace he was trying to project. "You give me half your bread every day, and I make sure Thomas doesn't take it all."
The boy, sniffling, agreed. The next day, when Thomas came around, Alex was waiting. He didn't throw a punch. He'd studied Thomas. He knew the older boy had a crippling fear of the matron's pet parrot. As Thomas loomed, Alex, with perfect timing, pointed and shouted, "Cor, look! Polly's out of her cage! And she's headin' right for your hair! She loves shiny things!"
Thomas shrieked like a banshee and fled. The smaller boy stared, open-mouthed, and handed over his half-crust without a word.
Word spread. Alexender Hunter could fix problems. For a price. A stolen biscuit. A shiny button. Help with chores.
By seven, he was the orphanage's unofficial prime minister. He had a network of tiny informants and enforcers. He knew which kitchen staff would look the other way for an extra jam tart. He knew which donors had loose change in their pockets. His "gang" would create distractions—a perfectly timed chorus of coughing, a spilled pot of water—while small, quick hands performed "redistributions of wealth."
It was petty, it was small-time, and it was the most challenging enterprise he'd ever run. But the funds, in the form of pennies, sweets, and occasionally, a real coin, trickled in. He was building capital. Literally.
He also discovered something else. Sometimes, when he really wanted something—like a book left on a high shelf by a visitor—it would just… wobble… and fall. At first, he thought it was a draft. But it happened too often. A door would unlatch when his hands were full. A stray ball would roll just a little further to reach him.
He didn't think much of it. Weird coincidence. The universe finally cutting him a break. He was too busy managing his tiny, sticky-faced empire.
Life continued in this dreary, mildly exploitative way until the day after his eleventh birthday. November 5th, 1885. There was no cake. No celebration. He was just a day older, sitting on his bed, plotting how to acquire a warmer blanket for the winter, when it happened.
A frantic tapping came at the window. An owl. A great, tawny thing, was perched on the sill, a thick, yellowish envelope clutched in its beak.
Every orphanage kid knew about animals. They were either food or something to throw rocks at. This one was too big to eat and looked like it would peck your eyes out if you tried to throw a rock.
Intrigued, Alex opened the window. The owl hopped in, dropped the letter on his lap, gave a dignified hoot, and flew over to perch on the bedpost, staring at him expectantly.
The envelope was addressed in a sweeping, emerald-green ink:
Mr. A. Hunter
The Third Bed by the Door
Wool's Orphanage
London
His blood ran cold. This was… specific. This wasn't a donor. He broke the wax seal—a crest with a lion, snake, badger, and eagle around a big 'H'—and pulled out the letter.
He read it. Then he read it again. Then he pinched himself, because this had to be a dream.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Headmaster: Phineas Nigellus Black.
His mind, the mind that had memorized complex fight patterns and the financial ledgers of his entire operation, did a frantic, screeching U-turn. He'd read these books. All of them. Back in his old life, he'd dated a girl who was obsessed. He'd read them to impress her, to have something to talk about. He'd found them… quaint. A fun story.
It wasn't a story.
The moving pictures he'd seen in newspapers here? The weird things that happened around him? The owl currently grooming itself on his bedpost?
"Magic," he breathed. The word felt alien and obvious all at once.
A savage, gleeful grin spread across his eleven-year-old face. The kind of grin that would have sent his old lieutenants running for cover.
Those old bastards who killed him? They were probably long dead of old age in this time. A shame. But this… this was a whole new world to conquer. And they had magic.
He looked at the acceptance deadline. July 31st. It was November. This owl was incredibly late.
"Oi, you feathery postman!" he said to the owl. "You're a bit behind schedule, ain't ya?"
The owl blinked, looking mildly offended.
No matter. He found a stub of a pencil and on the back of the letter, he wrote a single word: YES.
He gave the letter back to the owl, which snatched it, gave a happy hoot, and soared out into the grey London sky.
Alexander Hunter lay back on his thin mattress, his mind racing a million miles an hour. Hogwarts. Slytherin House. The Dark Lord who wouldn't be born for another century. He knew it all. He had the ultimate cheat sheet.
"Right then," he whispered to the damp ceiling. "New game."
A Few Weeks Later - Diagon Alley
Professor Matilda Weasley was a kind woman, but she was deeply perplexed. The boy, Alexender Hunter, was… odd.
She'd found him at the orphanage, and he'd greeted her not with confusion or fear, but with a calm, assessing look that belonged on a banker, not a child. He'd nodded as she explained everything, as if she were merely confirming what he already knew.
Now, in Diagon Alley, he wasn't gawking at the magical wonders like most Muggle-borns. He was… analyzing them. His eyes tracked the flow of gold in Gringotts, noted the security, the goblins' demeanor. In the bookshop, he didn't just get the required textbooks; he asked for "historical texts on modern ministerial law" and "a foundational theory on wandless application." The shopkeeper had looked at Professor Weasley as if the boy were mad.
And then came the wand.
Ollivander's. The boy had tried dozens. Boxes were piled high around them. Then, Mr. Ollivander emerged with a long, narrow box.
"A curious combination. Yew. Dragon heartstring. Fourteen and a half inches. Unyielding. A powerful wand… for a powerful purpose."
Alex took it. A wave of warmth, not pleasant, but right, like clicking the safety off a well-made gun, flowed up his arm. A shower of red and gold sparks erupted from the tip.
"Interesting," the boy said, not with wonder, but with satisfaction. He gave it a practiced twirl, the movement fluid and precise. It looked disturbingly natural in his hand.
"Unyielding, you say?" Alex asked.
"Indeed. It will learn from you, and it will not easily change its allegiance or its way," Ollivander said, his pale eyes wide.
"Perfect," Alex replied.
Later, as they finished their trip, Professor Weasley laid a kind hand on his shoulder. "You may stay at the Leaky Cauldron until term begins, Mr. Hunter. We have an arrangement with them for students with… similar circumstances."
Alex smiled. It was a polite, perfect smile that didn't quite reach his calculating green eyes. "Thank you, Professor. That is most generous."
September 1, 1885 - King's Cross Station
He walked through the barrier between platforms nine and ten without a hint of hesitation. The sight of the gleaming, scarlet steam engine—the Hogwarts Express—made his heart beat faster, but not with wonder. With anticipation. This was the starting line.
He found an empty compartment, stowed his trunk, and sat by the window, watching the families say their goodbyes. He felt nothing. They were assets and liabilities to him, nothing more.
The door to his compartment slid open.
Two boys stood there. One had his wand out, using it to push the door. He had sandy hair, a confident, almost cocky grin, and mischievous eyes. The other boy was blonder, paler, his hand resting lightly on the first boy's arm. His eyes were a milky, unfocused blue. He was blind.
The one with the wand spoke. "I say, is this compartment full? Everywhere else is packed tighter than a jar of Cockroach Clusters."
Alex looked them over. Assets. Potential allies. Or obstacles.
"It's free," Alex said, his voice neutral.
"Brilliant! I'm Sebastian Sallow," said the grinning one, stepping in. "And this gloomy fellow is Ominis Gaunt. Don't mind him, he's harmless. Mostly."
Ominis Gaunt gave a long-suffering sigh. "Your boundless charm is, as ever, overwhelming, Sebastian." He tilted his head slightly in Alex's direction. "My apologies for the intrusion."
"Alexender Hunter," Alex replied. "No intrusion."
Sebastian's eyes lit up. "Hunter! Brilliant name. First year?"
"It is."
"Us too! Brilliant! We'll all be in the same boat. Ominis here is a shoo-in for Slytherin, whole family's been there for centuries. I'm hoping for it too. What about you?"
Alex allowed a small, knowing smile. "I have a feeling I'll be seeing you both there."
Sebastian laughed. "I like you, Hunter! Right, I'm off to find my twin sister, Anne. She's probably found a compartment full of prefects to bore her to tears. Save my seat!"
Sebastian dashed off. Ominis Gaunt stood awkwardly for a moment before feeling for the seat and sitting down opposite Alex.
"Sebastian means well," Ominis said quietly. "He's just… a lot."
"I don't mind," Alex said, looking out the window as the train began to move. "It's good to have friends."
He wasn't talking about friendship. He was talking about a network. And he'd just made his first two connections. A charismatic, well-connected boy and a boy from the sacred, pure-blood House of Gaunt.
As the countryside began to blur past, Alexander Hunter, the orphanage crime lord, allowed himself a single, quiet thought.
Game on.