Chapter 1 – The Fall of Ronald Weasley
The summer sun shone bright over Ottery St. Catchpole, gilding the crooked outline of The Burrow in soft gold. Chickens clucked noisily near the garden, gnomes peeked from behind the hedges, and somewhere in the distance, the Diggory boy's broom whooshed past like a streak of lightning.
Nine-year-old Ronald Weasley was standing in the yard, face red, fists clenched. In front of him were Fred and George, identical grins plastered on their freckled faces. Ginny giggled behind them, and beside her stood Luna Lovegood, blonde hair shining like pale wheat in the sun. The two little girls were playing with a basket of puffapods, their childish laughter contrasting with the twins' mischief.
"Come on, Ronniekins," Fred said, dangling an old broom in front of him.
"Show us what you've got," George added, winking.
"I—I don't want to," Ron muttered, his stomach twisting. Flying was never his strength. He'd seen Charlie soar like a dragon-tamer and Bill fly as if the air bent to his will. Even Ginny had begged and begged for broom rides. But Ron? He hated how the ground tilted and his stomach dropped.
Fred gasped dramatically. "You don't want to? George, did you hear that? Our baby brother doesn't want to fly."
"Oh, the shame! Imagine what Mum will say when she hears Ron is afraid of brooms!" George crowed.
"I'm not afraid!" Ron shouted, cheeks blazing.
"That's the spirit!" Fred clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him forward. "Then up you go!"
"Or are you going to let Cedric Diggory beat you forever?" George smirked, tilting his head toward the far side of the field.
Ron's eyes followed. There, Cedric—already twelve, tall and confident—was gliding smoothly on a polished broom, executing neat spins and dives. The Diggory boy looked like he'd been born in the sky. Even from this distance, Ron could hear the faint cheer of Cedric's parents.
Ron's stomach sank. He hated being compared. He hated being the runt. But most of all, he hated being laughed at.
"I'll do it," Ron said through gritted teeth, snatching the broom from Fred's hands.
Ginny gasped. "Ron, don't—"
Luna tilted her head, eyes curious, but said nothing.
Fred and George exchanged identical wicked grins.
Ron mounted the broom, hands trembling slightly as he gripped the handle. His brothers leaned forward eagerly, watching.
"Just kick off gently—" Fred began.
But Ron kicked too hard.
The broom shot upward like a startled hippogriff. Ron yelped, his skinny frame wobbling as the wind whipped his hair. His hands clutched the broomstick desperately, knuckles white. The world below blurred—the chickens, the puffapods, Ginny and Luna's wide eyes—all shrank as the sky opened up.
For a single, exhilarating heartbeat, Ron felt weightless.
Then the broom shuddered. His grip slipped. His stomach lurched into his throat.
And with a terrified scream, Ronald Weasley plummeted.
He hit the ground with a sickening thud, head first.
The world tilted, then went dark.
"RON!" Ginny's voice shrieked, distant and panicked.
Fred and George's horrified cries overlapped, calling for their mother. Luna stood frozen, clutching the puffapod basket, her blue eyes wide.
But Ron heard none of it. His body convulsed once, fever searing through his small frame. Darkness swallowed him whole.
And in that darkness, something stirred.
A different consciousness.
A soul, ripped from another world, drifting in confusion and pain.
Nookala Sangamesh.
Late twenties. Indian. A man who had lived and died far from magic. His final memory was heat, sparks, and the acrid smell of burning plastic. His laptop—overheating in the sweltering summer—had exploded in his lap. He had cursed his luck, cursed the world, cursed himself for being too lazy to call a repairman. Then—nothing.
And now, he opened his eyes in someone else's body.
Memories surged like tidal waves.
Birth in a rickety little house. Red hair everywhere. Seven siblings, noisy, hungry, hand-me-downs passed down like relics. A father obsessed with plugs and rubber ducks. A mother whose love was fierce but stretched thin over too many children. Endless poverty. Envy for brothers who were smarter, stronger, funnier, braver. The constant feeling of being second best—or seventh best.
Sangamesh gasped in the darkness, overwhelmed. The emotions weren't his, but they stabbed deep—jealousy, insecurity, longing.
Ron Weasley's life.
It unfolded before him, each memory slotting into place, each ache settling in his chest.
"Bloody hell…" he muttered instinctively, voice echoing in the void.
He paused. The accent was wrong. The voice was younger. And he knew—this wasn't his body.
This was Ron Weasley.
For a long time, Sangamesh floated, silent. He sifted through the memories carefully. The Burrow. The Weasleys. Ottery St. Catchpole. The Lovegoods—their odd little house, their bright-eyed daughter Luna. The Diggorys, proud and athletic, Cedric flying like a golden boy.
And beyond that—the legends whispered in the wizarding world.
Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.
Sangamesh's lips curled. "So this is it. I've landed in Harry Potter's world."
Of all the books, of all the universes, it had to be this one.
A strange mix of excitement and bitterness welled in his chest.
His own life, before death—
--> A lazy man, yes.
--> An internet addict, yes.
--> Always looking for shortcuts.
--> Always chasing entertainment.
--> Dying because of his stupidity.
And yet… here he was.
Given another chance.
His thoughts turned to the characters he had once loved—and hated.
Harry Potter. Loyal, brave… but so bloody naïve. "Push the right buttons and the boy would walk into hell smiling," Sangamesh muttered.
Hermione Granger. A walking encyclopedia. Annoying at times, but brilliant, loyal, and—he winced—his teenage crush. He could already imagine her earnest brown eyes glaring at him, quoting rules from Hogwarts: A History.
Ron Weasley. Himself. A lazy, jealous, empty-headed fool. No filter, no loyalty, no drive. The family clown, the hanger-on, the waste of space. Sangamesh spat into the void. "If I'm him now, then fine. But I'll never be that Ron Weasley."
The Weasley twins—schemers, pranksters, but sharp as knives when money was involved. He could work with them.
Percy Weasley—oh, this one made Sangamesh's lip curl in disgust. Power-hungry, self-righteous, and willing to sacrifice anyone for his ambition. No conscience, no heart. "A snake in lion's colors," Sangamesh thought coldly. "I'll never trust him."
Dumbledore. The greatest manipulator of them all. "You raised a Dark Lord and a Savior, old man. Every death in this world is on your conscience."
Lucius Malfoy. Cunning snake. A rival to outmaneuver.
Fudge. Pathetic.
Draco. Daddy's little princess.
His laughter echoed darkly. This world was full of fools, manipulators, and sheep. And now—he had the chance to play the game himself.
"Ron Weasley died on that broom," Sangamesh whispered into the darkness. "I'll wear his face, his name, but I'll never be him. From now on—I decide what Ron Weasley becomes."
His eyes—Ron's eyes—snapped open. Fever still burned through his body, but his mind was sharp, clearer than ever.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
"I won't be poor. I won't be useless. I won't be anyone's shadow. Money. Power. Status. That's my path."
And deep in his soul, the faint hum of something alien stirred—a system, silent and waiting.