James sat at the dinner table, pushing his roasted chicken around his plate while his mind raced through calculations and contingencies. Two weeks had passed since his seventh birthday, two weeks since he'd truly accepted the reality of his situation.
He was living in the Harry Potter universe. And his final year at Hogwarts would coincide with Voldemort's control over the Ministry.
The thought sent a chill down his spine every time he considered it. 1998. The year the war would reach its climax. He would be seventeen years old, finishing his NEWTs while Death Eaters patrolled the halls and the Carrows taught Dark Arts as curriculum, all the while throwing out Cruciatus curses as treats.
Not that he would actually be there, He is not suicidal or stupid.
He is Muggleborn, and if captured, he'd either be killed or express delivered to Azkaban.
"James?" His mother's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You've barely touched your food."
"Sorry, Mum." He took a bite, forcing himself to focus on the present. Yara looked exhausted, fresh home from a long, tiring shift at the hospital.
"Long day?" Michael asked her, serving himself another helping of potatoes. His father had cooked tonight, as he often did when Mum worked late. Despite his demanding schedule at the law firm, Michael Acton insisted on sharing household responsibilities.
"Three surgeries back to back," Yara sighed. "One of them was touch and go for a while, but the patient pulled through." She reached across the table and squeezed James's hand. "How was your day? Learn anything interesting?"
James considered his answer carefully. He'd spent the afternoon in his room, practicing the Shield Charm for the hundredth time, still unable to produce more than a faint shimmer in the air. The frustration gnawed at him.
"I've been thinking about my education," he said finally. "My teachers have been... unchallenging lately."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Unchallenging? James, you're already three years ahead of your age group."
"I know. But I'm bored in class." It was true. Sitting through lessons on basic arithmetic when he could calculate compound interest in his head, or listening to elementary science explanations when he'd already studied quantum mechanics, was mind-numbing torture.
"I think I could move faster. Maybe work toward my O-Levels early?"
His parents exchanged a look, one of those silent conversations that couples develop over years of marriage.
"We've actually been meaning to talk to you about that," Yara said slowly. "Your headmaster called last week. He's concerned that you're not being properly challenged. He suggested we consider additional acceleration or another gifted program."
"I don't want to go to another school," James said quickly. The last thing he needed was to be shipped off to some boarding school for prodigies. He needed to stay in London, stay close to home, stay under the radar until his Hogwarts letter arrived. "I just want to study more. Learn more subjects."
"What subjects?" Michael asked, already analyzing the request.
James had prepared for this. "Languages, primarily. Latin, Sanskrit, Arabic, Swahili.
Persian, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Greek as well, if possible."
Yara blinked. "That's... quite a list."
"Many ancient texts are written in these languages. Philosophy, science, history. If I want to truly understand the foundations of knowledge, I need to be able to read primary sources."
It was a reasonable argument, and mostly true. What he didn't mention was that many magical spells were in Latin, and ancient languages were taught as a subject in the magic school he was planning on going to.
If he wanted to understand magic beyond what Hogwarts would teach, he needed linguistic access.
"And I'd like to expand into biology, including botany and genetics. Chemistry beyond what I've been studying. Maybe some advanced physics and maths courses as well."
All subjects that would serve him well in the magical world.
Potions was essentially chemistry.
Herbology required botanical knowledge.
And understanding the physics of the mundane world might help him comprehend how magic violated those laws.
Michael leaned back in his chair, studying his son with his sharp eyes. James met his gaze steadily. He'd learned early in this life that his father responded well to directness and logic. Michael Acton didn't coddle his genius son; he treated him as an intellectual equal, even at six years old.
"That's an ambitious curriculum," Michael said finally. "The language tutors alone would be expensive."
"I don't need toys," James said. "I don't ask for video games or expensive hobbies. Just books and knowledge."
A smile tugged at Michael's lips. "No, you certainly don't. Strangest seven-year-old I've ever met." He glanced at Yara. "What do you think?"
Yara's expression was complicated, a mixture of pride and something that looked like sadness. "I think our son is brilliant and driven and completely unlike any child his age." She reached over and ruffled James's hair, a gesture he tolerated because it made her happy. "I also think he's missing out on the joys of childhood. Playing with other children, being carefree, not worrying about ancient Greek and advanced physics at six years old."
"Mum," James said gently, "I am happy. Happier with books than I ever was trying to play with other kids, and I have already taken many advanced physics and maths studies, I just want to widen that knowledge pool even more."
"I know," she sighed. "Your father convinced me of that months ago. I just wish..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. If this is what makes you happy, then we'll always support you."
"Here's what I'm thinking," Michael said, slipping into negotiation mode. "Language tutors for the ones we can find are reasonable. But instead of hiring tutors for every subject, what if we arranged for you to have daily access to the library? I could pick you up on my way home from work. You'd have access to far more resources than we could provide at home."
James felt a surge of excitement. The London Library would have everything he needed. Linguistics texts, scientific journals, and historical records. It was perfect.
"I'd need to make sure you eat properly," Yara interjected. "You'll pack a lunch, and I want you to actually eat it, not just get lost in books and forget."
"I promise," James said quickly.
Michael extended his hand across the table, formal and businesslike. "Then we have a deal. I'll make the arrangements tomorrow. Library access and language tutors. In exchange, you keep your grades up, you eat properly, and you at least attempt to maintain some semblance of a normal childhood."
James shook his father's hand solemnly. "Deal."
Yara laughed, though it sounded a bit watery. "Look at you two, negotiating like he's a client instead of our son."
"He responds better to logic than coddling," Michael said with a shrug. "Besides, he's going to be smarter than both of us combined before he hits puberty. Might as well treat him with the respect he deserves."
After dinner, James helped clean up, then retreated to his room. This was his sanctuary, his planning space, his laboratory. The bookshelves that lined every wall contained his collection of knowledge: programming manuals next to fantasy novels, philosophy texts beside manga, scientific journals stacked atop language primers.
He already spoke seven languages fluently, a feat that seemed impossible for a seven-year-old until one remembered he had the mind of a man in his nineties. French, Japanese, Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi, Spanish, and Mandarin flowed from his tongue as easily as English. The new languages would be challenging, but with his photographic memory, he could absorb vocabulary and grammar rules at an unprecedented rate.
And didn't Barty Crouch Sr speak hundreds of languages? There has to be a magical way to accelerate language studies.
James locked his door and moved to the bookshelf, reaching behind a row of thick volumes to extract a leather-bound journal. This was his most carefully guarded secret, more precious than any of his other plans or preparations.
Inside, written in a cipher of his own devising that mixed three different alphabets, was every spell he could remember from the Harry Potter books.
He'd started the list weeks ago, sitting cross-legged on his bed, dredging up memories from his first life. He'd been twenty-three when the first book came out, thirty-one when the series concluded. He'd read them casually, enjoyed them, but never obsessed over them the way some fans had. Still, his memory preserved what he'd remember from his first life, and he'd reconstructed a spell list using that.
It wasn't comprehensive. There were many spells in the books, but he only remembered the ones that had stuck in his memory. But it was a start.
James flipped to a page and reviewed his progress.
Mastered:
Summoning Charm (Accio) - though he rarely used the verbal component
Banishing Charm (Depulso) - same as above
Water-Making Charm (Aguamenti) - useful, practiced regularly
Knockback Jinx (Flipendo) - satisfying when it worked
Wand-Lighting Charm (Lumos) - he used his finger instead of a wand
Levitation Charm (Wingardium Leviosa) - essentially what he'd been doing for years
The truth was, most of these charms came naturally to him because he'd been using similar wandless, wordless magic for two years without knowing what it was. His magic had learned to respond to his will directly, without the crutch of incantations.
The spells that required more than what telekinesis was able of, like Lumos and Aguamenti, had taken more effort, but his memory helped. Once he felt the flow of magic for a spell, he could replicate it almost perfectly on subsequent attempts.
The problem was the Shield Charm.
James set the journal aside and stood in the center of his room, hand outstretched. "Protego," he whispered.
A faint shimmer appeared in the air before him, like heat waves rising from pavement. It lasted perhaps two seconds before dissipating.
He tried again. "Protego."
The same weak result.
He'd been at this for days, and the spell remained frustratingly out of reach. He could stun his toys across the room with Stupefy. He could disarm an imaginary opponent with Expelliarmus. But creating a barrier, something to protect rather than attack, eluded him.
Maybe it's because I have nothing to protect against, he thought. The spell requires the intent to shield. What am I defending against in an empty room?
It was a problem he couldn't easily solve. He could hardly ask someone to attack him just so he could practice blocking.
James returned to his journal and reviewed the list of spells he still needed to learn:
Priority List:
Mending Charm (Reparo) - essential, practical
Shield Charm (Protego) - potentially life-saving
Disarming Charm (Expelliarmus) - already partially mastered
Stunning Spell (Stupefy) - already successful
Patronus Charm - far beyond his current ability
Unlocking Charm (Alohomora) - useful
Finite Incantatem - important for ending spells
Silencing Charm - could be useful
Vanishing Spell - advanced transfiguration
The list went on. Some spells would be easy to practice. Others, like the Blasting Curse or Bombardment Spell, were too dangerous to attempt in his bedroom. Where was he supposed to find something to blow up safely? More importantly, where was he supposed to be able to blow something up safely?
And then there were the spells he simply couldn't practice. The Patronus Charm required a happy memory, which was easier said than done, because not just any memory will do. The Doubling Charm needed objects to duplicate. The Engorgement Charm required test objects that can be discarded if the spell goes wrong.
James tapped his fingers against the journal, thinking. He had five years. Five years to master as much magic as possible before Hogwarts and to build a foundation that would help him achieve his aims of exploring and excelling at magic.
Not to mention, help him survive the upcoming wizarding war.
Because that was the future he had to face.
He couldn't convince his parents to leave the country. Michael and Yara had spent years building their careers. Michael was on track to make partner at his firm. Yara was one of the most respected surgeons in her department. They wouldn't abandon everything on the word of their seven-year-old son, no matter how much of a genius he appeared to be.
No, the only option was to attend Hogwarts, to gain knowledge, and to stay alive until it's time to get the hell out of Britain. It would likely be easier to convince Yara and Michael to flee Britain when he is older.
Which meant he needed to be careful to stay out of Potter and Voldemort's way.
He couldn't befriend Harry Potter and his friends. The very idea made him uncomfortable. Harry would be a year younger than him biologically, but decades younger in reality, still essentially a child, while James possessed the mind of someone approaching a century of lived experience.
The age gap was insurmountable.
More importantly, the Golden Trio were magnets for danger. Every year, something catastrophic happened around them. James had no desire to hunt basilisks in the Chamber of Secrets or face Dementors or navigate deadly tournaments. He needed to stay uninvolved, just another student trying to survive.
The problem was knowledge itself. He knew too much. He knew about the Philosopher's Stone, about the Chamber, about Sirius Black's innocence, about the traitor Peter Pettigrew. He knew Quirrell had Voldemort on the back of his head, knew Lockhart was a fraud, and knew Moody would actually be Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise.
Actually, having Lockhart for a Professor is a boon. I must learn to arse kiss well so I can get access to the restricted section of the library in the second year. He let the thought sit for a moment before slipping back into his earlier line of thought.
How could he stand by and let events unfold when he had the power to change them?
But what if I make it worse? The story he remembered ended with Voldemort's defeat. If he interfered, what if he accidentally created a future where Voldemort won?
No. The safest course was to stay out of the way. Let the story play out as it was meant to. Focus on his own education and survival. If opportunities arose to help without altering major events, he could take them. But wholesale intervention was too dangerous.
James closed the journal and returned it to its hiding place. Tomorrow, he would start his new routine. Library access meant access to a wide range of knowledge that the Muggle world could provide.
He pulled out a notebook and began drafting a study schedule. School in the morning. Library access in the afternoon, focusing on sciences that would support magical understanding, and evenings dedicated to spell practice.
The O-Levels could be completed by age 9. A-Levels by 10. He can then finally start concentrating on his magical studies once he gets access to Diagon Alley after getting his letter on his 11th Birthday. He would have 10 months to study magic at home.
That would give him a complete Muggle education before Hogwarts even started. And if the magical world fell apart during his seventh year due to his mere existence, then at least he'd have qualifications to fall back on in the Muggle world.
Always have a backup plan, he thought, a lesson learned from seventy-seven years of mundane existence.
There was a soft knock at his door. "James?" His mother's voice. "It's getting late. You should sleep."
"In a moment, Mum."
He heard her footsteps retreat, then return. The door opened slightly, and Yara poked her head in. Her expression was soft.
"Get some sleep, sweetie. Even geniuses need rest."
After she left, James changed into his pajamas and climbed into bed. But sleep eluded him. His mind churned through plans and possibilities, through spell lists and timelines.
1st November 1990. His Hogwarts letter would arrive. He'd be nearly eleven years old, his Muggle education complete.
September 1991. Harry Potter would arrive at Hogwarts for the first time.
And then seven years of danger to contend with.
Seven years. Seven years of danger and death and decisions that would shape the future of the wizarding world.
And James Acton, formerly Blake Gaines, would have to navigate all of it while pretending to be just another student.
He stared at the ceiling of his room, at the glow-in-the-dark stars he'd put up years ago to maintain the appearance of normal childhood interests.
I won't be a hero, he promised himself. I'll thrive, and I'll let the story play out as it's meant to.