Ethan Cole didn't miss his old body.
He missed what it could do.
A grown man's strength. Endurance. The simple confidence of knowing that if you needed to carry someone out of a collapsing building, you could. That if you needed to climb, strike, run, drag, breathe through pain—you would.
Now he was eleven years old and shaped like a stiff breeze could knock him over.
Still, the mind behind the bones remained the same. And the mind was the part that mattered.
The summer stretched long and thin, each day at Privet Drive a repetition of small indignities. Ethan endured them with a patience that surprised even him. The Dursleys expected flinching, pleading, fear. They expected a child.
Ethan gave them compliance without surrender, silence without weakness. He made himself small where it benefited him and invisible where it didn't.
At night, he trained.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. He trained like a prisoner plans an escape.
He counted push-ups with steady breaths, ignoring the burn in arms that lacked muscle. He practiced balance in the narrow space, feet on the edges of the cupboard floor, learning where his new center of gravity lived. He tested the wand in controlled increments—small sparks, brief motions, nothing that would draw attention.
Magic responded better when he was calm.
That, at least, felt familiar.
He built a routine. Routines were survival.
By late August, Ethan could hold a plank long enough to feel the first whisper of strength returning. He could run the perimeter of the block before dawn without wheezing. He could focus his intent through the wand and produce a clean, steady light without the jittery flicker of panic.
He didn't need more.
Not yet.
The problem with knowing the future was that it didn't care what you were ready for.
The next hinge point arrived on September first.
Petunia woke him before dawn, shoving his school list into his hands like she was disposing of evidence. Vernon grunted something about "freaky nonsense" and decided he was done caring. Dudley watched with the dull interest of someone seeing a strange animal being moved to a zoo.
Ethan dressed quickly, pack slung over one shoulder. He didn't waste time saying goodbye.
He'd learned long ago that goodbyes were only meaningful when people deserved them.
Hagrid arrived to escort him to the station, filling the narrow hallway with his bulk and a warmth that felt almost dangerous.
"Yeh ready, Harry?" Hagrid asked.
Ethan nodded. "Yes."
Hagrid beamed as if that single word had restored something he'd lost.
The train station was a river of people. Families rushed in every direction, luggage trailing behind them like tails. Ethan stood near a pillar and scanned the crowd with practiced habit—entry points, exit paths, potential threats.
Old reflexes didn't care where you were. They didn't switch off because the day was supposed to be magical.
Hagrid leaned closer. "Right. We just go through—"
"Between platforms nine and ten," Ethan said.
Hagrid blinked again. That happened a lot around Ethan.
"How d'yeh know that?"
Ethan shrugged. "I read it."
Hagrid chuckled as if it was a child's joke. "Aye. Well—off we go, then."
They approached the barrier. Families passed through it casually, as if stepping into a secret world was no more complicated than walking to a different shop.
Ethan watched closely. He waited for a gap. Then he moved—smooth, controlled, accelerating just enough to look natural.
The barrier gave way like mist.
And suddenly the noise changed.
The air smelled different. Coal smoke, warm metal, and something faintly sweet—like old paper and polished wood.
A scarlet train stretched along the platform, its surface gleaming under the high ceiling. Children clustered in groups, waving, laughing, calling out names. Parents fussed over scarves and snacks, hugging too long, warning too much.
Ethan stood still and let his senses record everything.
He'd seen war zones with less tension than this.
Because this wasn't just a station.
This was a threshold.
Hagrid clapped a huge hand on his shoulder. "There y'are. Get yerself on. I'll see yeh at the school, Harry."
Ethan nodded once. "Thank you."
Hagrid hesitated, then lowered his voice. "Yeh… yeh got people on the train, yeh know. Friends. It'll be fine."
Ethan looked at him. The giant's eyes were kind, worried in a way men like Hagrid always were—gentle people forced to exist near dangerous things.
"I know," Ethan said.
He didn't add: I know exactly who.
He walked toward the train.
Kids stared. Some whispered. The name followed him like a shadow he couldn't shake.
Harry Potter.
Famous. Marked. Myth.
Ethan ignored it.
Myths got people killed.
He stepped into a compartment and set his trunk down with minimal noise. The space smelled of clean fabric and old travel. He sat by the window, back straight, hands relaxed on his knees.
He waited.
Within minutes, footsteps approached. A red-haired boy appeared at the door, freckled and uncertain, eyes bright with curiosity.
"Er—mind if I sit?" the boy asked.
Ethan studied him for half a second.
Ron Weasley.
In the original story, Ron was the first friend, the loyal companion. The kid who laughed loudly and panicked honestly.
In Ethan's mental map, Ron was also a survival node—someone who mattered not because of power, but because of heart.
"Sit," Ethan said.
Ron stepped in, dragging his trunk behind him. He looked around, then glanced at Ethan, then looked away quickly.
"You're—" Ron started.
"Harry," Ethan supplied.
Ron swallowed. "Right. Yeah. Harry."
Ron sat, fidgeting with his sleeves.
Ethan watched him without judgment. "You don't have to act strange," he said.
Ron blinked. "I'm not acting strange."
"You are," Ethan said calmly. "It's normal. You expected me to be something else."
Ron's ears reddened. "Well—everyone says you're… you know. Famous."
Ethan turned his head slightly. Outside the window, parents waved, steam curled from the train's engine.
"Fame is just a rumor that won't die," Ethan said.
Ron stared at him like he'd spoken in a foreign language.
Then Ron burst out laughing—short, surprised, real.
"That's… that's not how kids talk," Ron said.
Ethan's mouth twitched. "I'm practicing."
Ron laughed harder.
Good, Ethan thought. Humor. Rapport. Connection.
Not because he needed friends.
Because friends were force multipliers.
The train jolted and began to move. The platform slid away, people shrinking into waving specks. The world outside shifted to countryside, green hills rolling under a cloudy sky.
Ron opened a bag of sandwiches and offered one. Ethan shook his head.
"I ate," Ethan lied.
Ron chewed, watching him.
"So," Ron said around a mouthful, "have you done magic before?"
Ethan considered.
"Uncontrolled," he said. "Mostly defensive."
Ron's eyes widened. "Defensive?"
Ethan kept his voice even. "When I was threatened. The environment changed. Objects moved. Like the world responded."
Ron looked impressed and slightly afraid. "Blimey."
Ethan looked out the window. "It's just a system I haven't learned."
Ron frowned. "A system?"
Ethan nodded. "All tools have rules. Magic has rules. I just need to find them faster than my enemies do."
Ron stared again. "Enemies?"
Ethan shifted his gaze back to Ron. "Everyone has enemies," he said. "Some just don't know it yet."
Ron stopped chewing.
Ethan softened his tone slightly. "Don't worry. Not you."
Ron swallowed. "Right. Yeah. Good."
There was a knock at the compartment door.
A girl stood there, hair bushy, eyes sharp, posture too confident for her age.
"Have you seen a toad?" she asked briskly, not waiting for permission to speak. "A boy named Neville lost one."
Hermione Granger.
Or in this version of the world: Hermione—still the same person, same drive, same relentless competence.
Ethan's mind flagged her immediately as another key node.
Hermione was a weapon if guided properly. She was also a moral compass that could keep him from becoming the kind of man who only measured success in bodies.
"No," Ron said quickly. "We haven't."
Hermione sniffed. "You should be looking. It's irresponsible to lose a pet before even arriving."
Ron bristled. "We didn't lose it!"
Hermione's eyes flicked to Ethan. She paused, suddenly unsure.
"You're Harry Potter," she said, voice changing tone.
Ethan didn't correct her.
"Yes."
Hermione stepped inside without waiting. She glanced around, then sat on the edge of the seat as if claiming territory.
"I've read about you," she said. "In several books."
Ethan nodded. "Good."
Hermione blinked. "Good?"
"If you read," Ethan said, "you have an advantage. Information reduces surprise."
Ron groaned softly. "Here we go."
Hermione's expression sharpened. "That's a very logical statement."
Ethan watched her carefully. "Are you logical?" he asked.
Hermione drew herself up. "Of course."
"Then you'll understand this," Ethan said. "People die when adults pretend danger doesn't exist."
Ron choked on his sandwich. "What?"
Hermione stared. "That's—why would you say that?"
Because it's true, Ethan thought.
Instead, he kept his voice calm. "I'm saying Hogwarts isn't just school. It's a battlefield in slow motion. The sooner you accept that, the more likely you'll survive."
Hermione's mouth opened. Closed.
Ron looked faintly horrified. "Merlin, Harry."
Ethan shrugged slightly. "I don't like surprises."
Hermione's eyes narrowed, not in anger but in analysis. "That's… very unusual," she said.
"Unusual is useful," Ethan replied.
For a moment, none of them spoke. The train's rhythm filled the silence—clack, clack, clack.
Then Hermione stood abruptly. "I'll find the toad," she said, and left the compartment with stiff purpose.
Ron exhaled like he'd been holding his breath. "You scared her," he whispered.
Ethan leaned back. "No," he said. "I challenged her."
Ron stared. "That's worse."
Ethan almost smiled.
Later, the candy cart arrived. Ron bought too much. Ethan bought nothing. He didn't like sugar; he liked efficiency. But he watched Ron carefully as the boy tried to look casual about his poverty, about the way he counted coins and hesitated.
Ethan filed it away.
Resource insecurity. Pride. Loyalty. Ron would follow someone who made him feel safe.
Ethan would not abuse that.
As afternoon stretched into evening, the train's compartments grew quieter. Kids changed into robes, voices lowering as nerves crept in.
Ethan stood and adjusted his own robe, feeling the fabric settle over his shoulders. It was strange—like wearing a costume of someone else's life.
The robe hung loose over the tactical instincts in his bones.
He looked at his reflection in the window. Green eyes stared back, too intense for the face.
For the first time, a sliver of doubt cut through his certainty.
He knew the story.
But stories changed when you touched them.
He was already changing it.
Hermione's reaction. Ron's fear. Hagrid's confusion. Ollivander's curiosity.
Small ripples.
Ripples became waves.
When the train finally slowed, the sky outside had darkened. Lanterns appeared in the distance, bobbing like stars close to the ground.
Kids surged into the aisle, trunks bumping, voices rising.
Ethan moved with controlled pace, letting the crowd flow around him.
He didn't like crowds. Crowds hid blades.
But he was not here to fight yet.
Not openly.
They stepped onto the platform, air cold and wet. The smell of lake water and stone carried on the wind. A massive silhouette loomed in the darkness.
A castle.
Hogwarts.
Or whatever spelling this world wanted to use—it didn't matter. The place was the same: ancient, proud, and full of secrets.
Hagrid's voice boomed across the platform. "First-years! This way! First-years over here!"
Ethan joined the cluster of small bodies, all of them shivering, whispering, staring up at the castle with awe.
Awe was dangerous. Awe made you careless.
Hagrid led them down a path to the lake, where small boats waited. Ethan stepped into one smoothly, sitting with his back to the side, positioning himself where he could see everyone.
Ron slid in beside him, still wide-eyed. Hermione climbed in as well, hair damp from searching, expression determined.
She glanced at Ethan, then away quickly.
The boats pushed off, gliding over black water. The castle grew larger, looming. Torches flickered on the shore like watchful eyes.
Ron whispered, "This is brilliant."
Hermione whispered, "It's historic."
Ethan whispered nothing.
He listened.
Water. Wind. Breathing. The faint creak of wood.
And beneath it all, something else—an old pulse in the stones, the quiet hum of magic woven deep into the structure of the world.
This was not a school.
It was a fortress that pretended to be one.
As the boats reached the shore, Ethan's stomach tightened slightly.
He knew what waited inside.
The Sorting. The feasts. The laughter.
And behind it all, unseen in the corridors like a slow poison, the first-year threat.
A teacher hiding something behind a nervous stutter.
A secret object locked away.
A dark presence that wasn't gone, only waiting.
Ethan stepped onto land and looked up at the castle.
"Alright," he murmured, so quietly that only he could hear it. "Let's do this right."
Ron glanced at him. "What'd you say?"
Ethan's eyes stayed on the towering doors.
"I said," he replied, voice even, "we're going to be early."
Ron frowned. "Early for what?"
Ethan's gaze sharpened.
"For the part where people usually get hurt," he said.
Ron swallowed. Hermione, behind them, heard and stiffened.
They climbed the stone steps and entered the Great Hall.
Candles floated overhead like captured constellations. Hundreds of students watched the first-years with a mix of boredom and interest. Professors sat at a long table, faces lined with authority.
Ethan's eyes scanned automatically.
Headmaster: calm, watchful.Stern teacher in black: hostile, precise.Kindly teacher: warm, alert.Nervous man with a twitch: sweating, eyes avoiding direct contact.
Quirrell.
There he was.
Ethan's focus narrowed.
The man's posture wasn't just anxious. It was defensive. Like someone bracing for impact.
Ethan felt a strange chill ripple across his scar.
The enemy, hiding behind a human mask.
He didn't react. Not yet.
He stepped forward with the other first-years as the Sorting Hat was brought out—a battered old thing with a sagging brim and a voice that sounded like worn leather.
Names were called. Kids sat. The hat decided their fate.
Ethan waited.
When his name came—"Harry Potter"—the hall murmured like a living animal. Eyes fixed on him. Curiosity. Expectation.
Ethan sat, feeling the hat drop onto his head.
The voice came immediately, close and private.
"Well," it said, amused. "This is… unusual."
Ethan kept his face still.
You're in my head, he thought.
The hat chuckled. "Indeed I am. And you are… not what I expected."
Ethan's internal voice stayed controlled. Put me where I can learn fast. Where I can move. Where I can see threats.
The hat paused. "Ambition. Not for power, but for control. A keen mind. A heavy history… far heavier than this body should carry."
Ethan didn't flinch.
The hat continued, softer now. "You could do well in many places. But you want… proximity."
I want access, Ethan thought. To knowledge. To people. To the center.
The hat hummed. "You want to change the game."
Yes.
"And you will," the hat said. "So where to put you, Harry Potter?"
Ethan's eyes flicked briefly toward the staff table. He saw Quirrell's nervous hands. He saw Snape's dark stare.
He saw the pieces.
Gryffindor, the hat suggested, like an old habit.
Ethan's mind replied without hesitation.
No.
The hat's amusement sharpened. "No?"
Gryffindor is loud, Ethan thought. I need leverage, not applause.
The hat went still for a moment. Then its voice turned thoughtful.
"Very well," it murmured. "Cunning, then. Strategy. Resourcefulness. A house that understands the value of winning before the fight begins…"
Ethan's pulse stayed steady.
The hat shouted:
"SLYTHERIN!"
The hall exploded into noise—shocked gasps, startled whispers, a ripple of disbelief. At the Slytherin table, students stared as if a meteor had landed among them.
Ron's face went white. Hermione's eyes widened.
Snape's expression shifted—barely, but Ethan caught it.
Interest.
Quirrell flinched.
Ethan stood and walked toward the Slytherin table with the calm gait of someone entering hostile territory by choice.
Because he wasn't here to be liked.
He was here to prevent a war.
And if that meant stepping into the snake pit first—
So be it.
He sat down among Slytherins who didn't know whether to welcome him or fear him.
Ethan folded his hands, eyes forward, face composed.
Inside, his mind was already moving.
If he was in Slytherin, he could watch Malfoy up close.He could track whispers early.He could find the cracks in the enemy's plan before the enemy even realized he had cracks.
He felt Ron's stare from across the hall like a question.
He felt Hermione's confusion like a blade.
And he felt Quirrell's fear like a scent.
Good.
Fear was information.
Ethan looked toward the staff table one more time, meeting Quirrell's eyes for the briefest fraction of a second.
Quirrell looked away instantly.
Ethan's scar tingled again—faint, cold.
The enemy recognized something.
Not Harry Potter.
Not a child.
Something else.
Something that had learned, in a different world, how to end fights quickly.
Ethan allowed himself one quiet, internal thought—dry and steady.
Year one, he told himself. Let's not let anyone die in year one.