Born in the late 1990s, I was—on paper—a normal child. In reality… not so much.
I was barely five when the universe decided to remind me it had a sense of humor, and not a particularly kind one. My mother, caught up in a chatter with some nosy lady, forgot I existed for roughly the duration it takes to wander onto a road. A car appeared—almost too late—and that was the end of normal childhood. My body below the neck didn't work again, trapped in a kind of living coffin. Vegetative, paralyzed, forgotten, abandoned… a life in pieces.
My father? He tried, briefly. Visiting me every so often, only to vanish after a year or two. My mother… well, a hospital job apparently left no time for maternal guilt. She stopped coming, just like him. The only comfort I had was a nurse with a soft voice who told me stories. Stories that, at the time, felt more like windows to another life I could never touch.
I died at nine. Technically, my body gave up first, but the mind… well, it had been slowly curling into itself for years. Funny thing is, I didn't even hate life. I just… stopped expecting it to care.
Then, somehow, I was reborn. A clean slate, a better world, perfect conditions, and parents who loved me, though they were always busy. Not rich, not extraordinary—just… present. My father ran a garage, my mother worked at a store, and our home? Vast, almost absurdly so compared to the cramped little abodes my friends had. I was finally free, finally able to move, to explore, to exist without a body that betrayed me.
And magic? Well, the universe saved the punchline for that. At eleven, Minerva McGonagall herself informed me—very calmly, with the faintest hint of disapproval—that I was a wizard. My parents were shocked, naturally. Their "squib"ed out line, suddenly capable of bending reality. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
Funny thing… I realized I'd had accidents before, little sparks of the impossible, which I had always dismissed as imagination. The universe had been nudging me all along, whispering, you're not done yet.
So here I am. Lucius Selwyn. Reborn. Free. Smart enough to know the absurdity of life, sharp enough to find the humor in it, and… well, let's say I have some experience in surviving worlds that weren't built for me.
And now? Hogwarts. A train filled with screaming children, magical chaos, and legends walking around in real life. It was going to be... a little… interesting.
IOr so I thought—until the universe, in one of its tasteless little jokes, reminded me exactly how interesting it could be.
I was sitting across from him. Harry Potter. The boy from the book I had clutched as a child, the one my grandparents had given me with such pomp and ceremony, filled with tales of heroics, darkness, and improbable luck. And from the incessant bragging of the red-haired whirlwind who had just introduced himself as Ron, I began to piece it together.
There really was a dark wizard. A name I still didn't know, but one whose shadow had spread like a disease across that world. And the boy in front of me—the very same Harry Potter—had been the one to destroy that creature. To stop a war. To save countless lives, all while I had been busy dying in my first life or reading the legends from the comfort of someone else's hand-me-down storybook.
I sank into my thoughts, letting the absurdity of it all wash over me. The universe has a spectacular sense of irony, I mused silently. Here I was, reborn, healthy, privileged enough to attend this ridiculous institution, and yet the real legend—the one who carried the weight of history—was sitting across from me like any other schoolboy, blinking in mild discomfort at the very ordinary seat he had been assigned.
Harry's voice broke through, soft, hesitant. "Um… Luci... Mr. Selwyn? Hello?"
Again.
And again.
I jolted awake, as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over me. My mind snapped back from its reverie, from the strange, swirling realization that fate had conspired to place me here, in this very carriage, with the boy who had actually done it all.
I blinked. Focused. Collected myself. And for the first time that day, I allowed a small, private smirk to curl at the corner of my lips. Well, I thought, this is going to be far more interesting than I anticipated.
Suddenly, Ron's flaming hair seemed to bristle even more as he spun toward me. "Wait a minute! You're a Selwyn! A Death Eater!" he yelled, pointing a finger like it was a weapon.
I blinked. "Excuse me?" I said, my voice calm but sharp. "What… is a Death Eater?"
Ron's face turned red, his hands clenching. "You don't get it! You can't be sitting here, with Harry Potter! How dare you!"
I leaned back slightly, frowning, a flicker of annoyance rising. How dare some insolent child speak to me this way? I thought, my tone carefully measured. "Excuse me, but perhaps you might explain yourself before throwing around accusations like… like a very untidy broomstick?"
Harry, sitting quietly at first, frowning said "Ron… what are you talking about? Why are you so angry at Selwyn? What even is a Death Eater?"
Ron whipped his head toward Harry, still almost vibrating with outrage. "A Death Eater!" he hissed. "They're the ones who follow the Dark Lord! The ones who—who do horrible things! You can't just let one of them sit here! Not near you, Harry! Kick him out! You're the Boy who Lived!"
I blinked again, completely dumbfounded. "So… you are saying I am a criminal? Without even asking me? Without even knowing what this… Dark Lord… is?" My voice carried that faint, aristocratic edge of disbelief. "I see. How… polite."
Harry put a calming hand on Ron's arm, trying not to raise his voice. "Ron! Calm down! He's not… I mean, Selwyn hasn't done anything! You're just… guessing! That's not fair!"
Ron crossed his arms, fuming. "Guessing? I know! Selwyns are purebloods. They're the sort who—who follow the Dark Lord! You can't just be friends with the Boy Who Lived if you're one of them!"
I pressed my lips together, letting a small smirk curl. And this is eleven years old? I thought, amused despite myself. "I see. So being born into a family makes me guilty of crimes I have never committed? Fascinating. And here I was, under the impression that polite conversation was allowed on trains."
Harry's green eyes darted between us, frustration evident. "Ron! He's not even—he's just sitting here! You can't decide who's allowed to be near me!"
Ron stomped his foot, clearly unconcerned with decorum. "I don't care! I won't let a Death Eater sit here! Not one step closer!"
Perfect! Let's write this scene with humor, tension, and the typical 11-year-old pacing of Hogwarts students, keeping Lucius Selwyn's sardonic perspective, Ron's impulsive nature, and Harry's mediating charm. Here's a polished draft:
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As Ron ranted about Death Eaters with all the confidence of an eleven-year-old convinced he knew the world, I found myself glancing at his… antiques. Well, not antiques exactly, but his trunk and little trinkets scattered across the seat—oddly charming in a chaotic, unpolished way. I allowed myself a small smirk at the absurdity of it all.
Suddenly, the boy stood up, fumbling with his wand in the pocket of his robe. It seemed to have a mind of its own, caught and stuck, making him rumble and tug for a few long, tense seconds. Finally, with a triumphant pop, the wand was free.
Before anything else could happen, a knock came at the carriage door. The trolley lady appeared, her expression casual but watchful. Her eyes flicked to Ron, noting the wand in his hand.
"Keep your wand down, dear," she said, voice light but firm. "Magic is not allowed on the Hogwarts Express. And unless you want to be the first student in history expelled before even being sorted, I suggest you comply."
Ron's face turned red, but he hurriedly lowered the wand. The trolley lady's lips curved into a faint, approving smile. "Much better. Now… does anyone want something from the trolley?"
Harry, sensing the delicate tension between me, Ron, and the trolley lady's casual remark, perked up. "What's on the trolley?" he asked, curiosity sparkling in his green eyes.
"Oh, sweets, of course!" she replied cheerfully. "Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Pumpkin Pasties, Fizzing Whizbees… and sandwiches, if you're peckish."
Harry's eyes lit up. He reached into his pocket, producing a handful of gold Galleons. "I'll have a few of each!" he declared gleefully, handing coins to the trolley lady, who quickly collected them.
With treasures secured, Harry turned to Ron and offered him a chocolate. Ron, the simpleton, forgot entirely about me in his excitement. He plopped down next to Harry, eagerly munching on everything in sight.
For a few blissful moments, it seemed as if the world had shifted—Ron distracted, Harry smiling, and even the trolley lady moving on to another carriage.
Then Ron's voice cut through the quiet: "Harry… you shouldn't be passing sweets to Slytherin boys like that, you know."
I arched a brow, unable to resist the opportunity. "Oh, you misunderstand," I said coolly, voice smooth and deliberate. "I am a Muggle-born, not some pure-blooded Slytherin scion. Quite unlike your assumption, I'm afraid."
Ron froze mid-chew, eyes widening as though I had just revealed some monstrous secret. "You… you're… a… Muggle-born?" he stammered, disbelief written all over his face.
I leaned back, smirking faintly, and let the small victory linger. Ah… amusing. Truly, life never seems to disappoint.