Emerys hidden manor - May 5th 1987
A young, pale boy opened his eyes slowly. His expression was clouded with confusion and unease. The room around him glowed with dim candlelight, its flickering shadows deepening his disorientation.
"Where am I?" he whispered.
As if his words unlocked a floodgate, a storm of memories rushed into his mind. Loud noises, flashing scenes, half-forgotten fragments clattered inside his skull. It wasn't exactly painful—just unbearably loud, intrusive, and overwhelming.
"Ah… yes. I died, and I was given this chance." His voice trembled. "Thank you… thank you…"
The last words spilled out again and again, as though repeating them could anchor him to life itself. A single tear rolled down his cheek.
For the first time, he took in his surroundings properly. He was in a bedroom, faintly scented of old wood and dust, yet surprisingly well-kept despite its obvious antiquity. A large bed dominated the center, and a desk stood opposite it. Upon the desk rested a single folded note.
He walked over and unfolded it.
---
The Letter
Hello there, Andrew. By now, most of your previous life's memories should have returned. This note will appear on your tenth birthday, and disappear the moment you finish reading it. First, congratulations on your successful rebirth. As agreed, your memories have been restored at this age.
From now on, your name is Ambrose Emerys, heir to the Emerys magical line. You have been reborn in the world of Harry Potter. However, the world you know from the novels is not identical—we've made adjustments to fit your wishes. Don't forget to enjoy yourself, my boy. You deserve it.
P.S. The reason you couldn't recall anything at first was because your mind was still adjusting. Accommodating such vast knowledge takes time. But worry not—your final wish should make this process much smoother.
---
The note shimmered with tiny sparks of light, like fairy dust, before dissolving into nothing. Andrew—no, Ambrose—stood there silently, processing the flood of information.
He was ten years old, just as the note said. His true name was Ambrose Emerys. He lived on a private island, owned solely by his family, a landmass nearly the size of Madagascar. Protected by wards, it was invisible and inaccessible to all but the direct bloodline of the Emerys family. This was their ancestral seat, their greatest sanctuary: the manor of Vanagarth, known in myths as Vanaheim, the legendary land of the Vanir, gods of wisdom, life, and fate. The name traced back to Vana, one of Ambrose's own ancestors.
His upbringing had been plentiful. Raised by his house-elves, Fuzzle and Luma, alongside his maids Amma and Elly, each descended from families that had served the Emerys line for millennia, Ambrose had been educated rigorously since the age of four. Mathematics, physics, languages, etiquette, and countless other subjects were drilled into him.
And then, there was the library.
It was among the most vast and excessive in the world. Endless rows of books, tomes, and scrolls stretched into seeming infinity, steeped in knowledge gathered over millennia. The collection spanned both history and myth, linking the Emerys family to names such as Odin, the All-Father, and Ra, the Sun God—wizards of extraordinary power remembered by the world as gods.
As memories of his past life resurfaced—the pain, the hardship, the loneliness—Ambrose smiled faintly. Now, he had a second chance. This time, he would not squander it.
He opened a notebook and began writing everything he would need for the future. His goal was clear: first, to master magic; second, to teach it. In his previous life, the only true joy he had ever known was teaching children. Those moments had been the only lights cutting through the shadows of his otherwise dark life.
---
Ambrose's Assessment
"First, my wealth. I am rich-filthy rich. And that's only counting our Gringotts vaults across the world. We also keep vaults on each of our estates, brimming with artifacts and magical wonders. There is nothing I cannot buy.
Second, my magic. It already matches that of a third or fourth-year Hogwarts student. Likely because of that ritual I underwent at age five. My family has countless rituals, capable of enhancing both magic and lifespan.
Third, the ancestors. Many of my family members left behind fragments of themselves, similar to ghosts, but far more alive. They aren't Horcruxes, nor anything dark. They linger, often slumbering, sometimes buried in research, caring little for the outside world. They speak only to the living heir."
He paused, then continued his notes.
"My family has two main bloodline abilities. First, our eyes. Their golden-red glow reflects our power to see magical energy—its volume, color, and even the language of magic itself. Second, our druidic gift. We can communicate with living beings—human, animal, or tree—with ease.
As for my wishes:
My first was never to be deceived. This became the power to sense lies and deception.
My second was to be reborn with an ancient magical bloodline.
My third was to communicate with all creatures, which manifested as a hereditary gift.
My fourth was infinite vitality, my body will never deteriorate or fall ill. Perhaps it is even immortal. Their choice of name for me suggests as much.
My fifth was for perfect memory and comprehension. That has been with me since childhood."
---
Ambrose closed the notebook, excitement thrumming through him. For the first time, he had a life worth living.
"Fuzzle. Luma."
With two sharp pops, the elves appeared before him. Unlike common house-elves, the Emerys elves were tall, shorter than humans, but graceful, almost beautiful.
"Yes, master," said Luma, the blonde female elf, bowing gently.
"Master! You're finally awake!" cried Fuzzle, the dark-haired male elf, brimming with excitement.
Ambrose smiled. "I want to attend Hogwarts. Just as my great-great-grandfather Merlin II once did."
"But master, you hardly need such an education," Luma protested softly.
"I know. But it is time for the Emerys name to rise again. If I am to teach wizards the true nature of magic, I must first see what they are taught. I want to witness modern magic for myself."
"If that is your wish, so be it, master. How shall we-"
"Fuzzle will go! Fuzzle will go!" Fuzzle interrupted, bouncing with excitement.
Ambrose chuckled. "Not yet. First, we send an owl. Then we wait for the reply. After that, the three of us will meet the headmaster in person. I hear he is… above average."
The thought amused him. To his family, even Dumbledore—the so-called greatest wizard of all time—was merely "above average."
"Now," he said at last, "take me to the owlery. We have a letter to send."
"Yes, master," replied Luma. She took his hand, and with a crack of displaced air, they vanished.