When my brother and I turned three, they took us to preschool.
And kids. God—so many kids.
Screaming, running, drooling. Some with fingers buried up their noses, others licking their shoes like they were ice cream. A disinfectant-and-sour-milk nightmare.
In my previous life I ran rooms full of armed criminals with a single look. Now I couldn't even control where they sat me during the stupid singing circle. The chaos itched under my skin like a rash I couldn't scratch.
We'd been at this preschool for almost two weeks, and in that time I'd already cracked the whole ecosystem. Mrs. Pemberton—sturdy woman with a wool cardigan and that stale lavender perfume—always showed up with her stained tea mug and a newspaper tucked under her arm. We started at 8 sharp. First hour: "free play," where the little goblins did whatever they wanted while she pretended she was supervising.
I used that time to drill Simon.
"Simon," I whispered as we pretended to play with blocks, "run the plan again. When's the best time to make a move without getting spotted?"
"In the afternoon," he answered with that smug little grin, "when they put on a movie on the old telly."
"Close." I shook my head. "Best move is when they least expect it. Nap time."
"But then when do we sleep?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"Exactly. They expect us to be asleep. Mrs. Pemberton uses it to take her own nap." I leaned in. "Today, during nap time, I'm making my move. Before it starts, I want you to tell her I went to sleep early. Then put my pillow and yours under the sheets. Got it?"
He nodded.
These days Mrs. Pemberton had developed a real weakness for Simon. "What a polite boy," she'd say, ruffling his hair. Perfect. While she doted on him, I had freedom to watch, learn, map every corner of the classroom. Every schedule. Every opening.
Today was perfect for my real objective.
My heart was pounding too fast. Damn kid body betraying me with adrenaline I didn't need. I took a deep breath and reached out.
I took the newspaper carefully. Quiet. Then I walked—fast, but controlled—toward the shelf of picture books. I tucked myself between The Three Little Pigs and Goldilocks.
I opened it. My hands trembled a little.
The London Herald, it said in big black letters.
The date confirmed what I'd suspected: November 1st, 1983. London.
But I still wasn't sure it was the exact London I remembered from my old life.
I flipped through the front pages. Politics, economy, sports. Margaret Thatcher at some conference. Miners' protests. Cricket results. All normal. Boring. Predictable.
Until I hit a smaller section buried between classifieds and horoscopes.
A headline stopped me cold:
"Clerkenwell Explosion: Three Years With No Answers"
"Three years have passed since the tragic incident near Shaftesbury Avenue that claimed the lives of twelve people and left several seriously injured.
According to official sources from the Department of Public Services, the explosion registered at 03:00 on November 1st, 1981, was the result of a critical pressure buildup in an undocumented secondary pipe during routine inspection work. Authorities state corrective measures were implemented without further complications.
However, multiple residents have repeatedly expressed doubts regarding the official version. Testimony collected at the time pointed to the absence of the characteristic smell of natural gas, as well as a lack of prior warnings from the supplier company.
One witness, who requested anonymity, stated they observed 'smoke of an unusually dark colour, almost black like oil,' as well as the presence of an individual wearing a long coat with dark hair who 'let out a scream before vanishing in an inexplicable manner.' Authorities have declined to comment on these claims."
Well, well, well… what's this?
This was a cover-up. Obvious. Shameless.
First, where it sat in the paper: buried between second-hand ads and horoscopes. This should've been front-page news. Twelve dead wasn't nothing. No victim details. No suspects. Not even photos. Everything framed as "routine inspection" and "corrective measures."
I knew that pattern like my own heartbeat.
A gas leak was the cheap excuse. A smokescreen—literally and figuratively—for something way more specific. In my previous life, I'd run ops like that. When you needed someone erased and a message sent at the same time, you staged a scene. Collateral damage. Innocents. Mass confusion. Then you paid the right witnesses, leaned on the press, and killed the investigation from the top down.
Clean. Efficient. Terrifying.
But there was something else about this one.
The place: Clerkenwell.
The date: November 1st, 1981.
A chill crawled up my spine.
No.
No, no, no.
My brain started drawing lines I didn't want it drawing. Clerkenwell was near… what, Charing Cross Road? And the date was exactly a day after Halloween. Halloween 1981. A man in a long coat. Dark hair. Vanishing.
Sirius Black chasing Peter Pettigrew. The blast that killed twelve Muggles. The arrest. Azkaban without a trial.
Shit.
SHIT.
The book slipped in my shaking hands. I caught it before it hit the floor, but it was clumsy. Desperate.
I breathed in. Again. Again.
Calm down. Calm the hell down.
This didn't mean anything. It didn't have to mean anything.
An explosion in London in 1981. So what? Explosions happened. Government cover-ups happened. I'd done a few myself. This could be anything. Organized crime. The IRA. Some political mess I didn't understand.
The fact it matched—
No.
I wanted it to match. That was the problem. I'd spent years in my old life reading about that world. About that damn castle and its wands and its prophecies. I used it as an escape whenever my real world turned too gray, too broken.
Of course my brain would leap there.
Confirmation bias. Plain and simple. I was seeing patterns because I wanted to see them.
Because if I was in that world… if magic was real… if there was a second chance not just at life but at purpose—
No.
That was magical thinking. Literally.
I needed more information. Concrete data. Evidence. I couldn't afford assumptions based on what I hoped to find.
But the date was still there in cheap ink: November 1st, 1981.
And that knot in my stomach didn't loosen.
"Luca, sweetheart, what are you doing?"
Mrs. Pemberton's voice hit me like a punch.
Shit.
My heart kicked into overdrive. She'd appeared behind me without me noticing. With that teacher smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Idiot. Idiot. IDIOT.
All these days watching, mapping, planning—and I'd broken rule number one: never get distracted in hostile territory.
Without turning around, I slid the newspaper into a children's book with a pig driving a car on the cover, colourful buildings behind him. My clumsy kid fingers almost dropped it. Almost.
"Just… looking at the pictures," I mumbled, shutting the book harder than I needed to. "I wanna learn to read like the big kids."
Silence.
Long.
She stared at me for a moment that felt like an hour. Her eyes dropped to the book. Then my hands. Then back to my face.
I kept the expression. Innocent. Curious. Nothing else.
Please don't check the book. Please don't check the damn book.
Then she smiled. Ruffled my hair the way she did with Simon.
"What a clever boy. But you're still too little for grown-up papers." She took the book from my hands before I could react. Opened it. "This one's more suitable for your age."
The newspaper fell.
Straight to the floor.
Between us.
I froze.
She looked down. Picked it up. Folded it carefully.
"Suppose someone left it here by accident," she said, tone unreadable. "Better get back to your mat, Luca. It's rest time."
She didn't say anything else. But her eyes followed me as I walked back to the nap area.
And I knew—knew—that was coming back around.
It wasn't long before recess.
I woke Simon and asked if he was ready for today's lesson.
These days I'd been teaching him "play fighting." I needed someone strong at my side, and Simon was perfect for it. At first he just shoved without technique, but he learned fast. Too fast.
"Remember," Mrs. Pemberton said before we went outside, "play nicely. No hard hitting, understood?"
We nodded in sync.
The yard smelled like wet grass and sweaty kids. Back near the edge of the playground—where dirt mixed into sand—was our zone.
When we got there, we warmed up. I'd taught him the importance of prepping the body before effort. Stretching first. Then light hops. Joint rotations.
And while we did it, I noticed something.
Simon moved… differently.
It wasn't toddler clumsiness. It was fluid. Like his body understood movement mechanics before his brain even caught up. His jumps had rhythm. His stretches had natural balance.
Weird.
I dismissed it. Probably just good mimicry. Kids were sponges. And he'd been copying me since birth.
Other kids started gathering around us to watch us "fight." A circle of laughter, shouts, and dirty mouths full of crumbs.
"They're gonna fight again!" yelled a girl with pigtails.
"I want Simon to win!" said some kid with chocolate-stained teeth.
"No! Luca's stronger!" another one fired back.
Perfect. An audience. That kept Mrs. Pemberton at a distance if she thought it was just kid stuff.
Simon and I squared up, fists half raised. Not real guard, obviously. We were three. I could barely balance on one foot for more than two seconds.
"Ready?" I asked.
He nodded.
But something in his eyes was different this time. A focus I hadn't seen before. Like something inside him had switched on.
He was taking it seriously.
Too seriously.
We started.
I threw a weak, sloppy punch at his shoulder. He slipped it easily—almost without effort. He countered with a shove that I had to block with both arms. The force behind it was… substantial. For a three-year-old.
We traded controlled hits. Shoves. Low kicks that looked more like directed trips. To any outside observer, we were two kids playing wrestle.
But I knew the truth. This was training. And Simon was absorbing every movement like a damn sponge.
He threw a right hand. I ducked. I tapped his head lightly and he exaggerated a wobble for the show. He laughed.
So did I.
And then he did it.
The movement was… impossible.
His body spun with an explosive turn. Too fast. Too precise. His leg came up in a perfect arc, drawing a clean line toward my head. His hip rotated with exact technique. His foot was pointed with flexed toes.
A roundhouse kick.
Technically perfect.
I didn't teach him that.
My mind went blank for a fraction of a second.
But my body reacted.
Pure instinct. Muscle memory firing before the brain caught up. Years of street fights, backroom training, surviving where speed was the difference between living and dying.
I stepped sideways. Too fast. Too sharp.
My feet slid in the loose dirt.
Balance went to hell. To avoid falling, I let my body follow the momentum. Dropped my centre. Extended my leg on pure reflex.
A low sweep.
Perfect.
Lethal.
SHIT.
I saw it in slow motion.
My foot connecting with his ankles. The shock on his face. His feet leaving the ground. His body starting to fall backward—out of control—toward hard dirt mixed with small stones.
No no no no—
My heart clenched. Air jammed in my throat.
I could already see it. The fall. The dull smack. His head bouncing. The crying. The blood. The teacher running. Questions I couldn't answer. The hospital. Gregory looking at me with those dark eyes that showed nothing.
What did you do to your brother?
But Simon didn't fall.
Not the way he should've.
His feet fully left the ground. His body tilted in midair at an impossible angle.
And then… it stopped.
Suspended.
Floating.
Half a metre off the ground.
The world changed.
Not subtly. Not gradually.
It was like someone switched the channel on reality.
The air turned thick. Dense. Like it was full of something invisible pressing against my skin from every direction. A strange pressure squeezed my ears. The kids' screaming muffled and warped, like I was listening from under three metres of water.
Every sound became cotton.
And in the centre of that impossible quiet, Simon floated.
His shirt puffed slightly, moving with no wind. His hair drifted as if underwater. Arms out to the sides—not panicked, but… balanced?
His eyes were closed.
Absolute concentration.
His face didn't show fear. Didn't show surprise.
It showed control.
Like he knew exactly what was happening. Like he'd done it a thousand times.
And then, slowly—so slowly it hurt to watch—he began to descend.
Not fall. Not collapse.
Descend.
As if invisible hands held him under the arms and guided him down with care, with precision, until his feet touched the ground.
No sound.
No jolt.
Perfect.
The air became air again. The pressure vanished. Sound rushed back in a wave of childish laughter and yelling that hit me like a punch.
I stayed locked in place.
Leg still extended from the sweep. Breath stuck in my throat like stone. Heart hammering against my kid ribs like it wanted out.
My brain tried to process it.
Tried to understand.
Tried to find a logical, rational, normal explanation for what I'd just seen.
It found none.
What the hell…?
"You saw that!" Simon blurted, wearing the biggest grin I'd ever seen on him. "It didn't hurt at all! It was like flying!"
He was laughing. The little bastard was laughing. Like he'd just hopped off a swing instead of spitting in the face of physics.
The other kids' voices came in overlapping echoes:
"How did he do that?"
"Did you see—he stayed in the air!"
"That was super weird!"
"Do you think it was magic?"
"Don't be dumb! Magic isn't real!"
"Then what was it?"
"He was just really fast."
"Fast how? There was nothing!"
"Well I dunno, but magic isn't real!"
A small girl—the one with pigtails—had gone quiet. She stared at Simon with wide eyes. Scared. Not confused. Scared.
But the rest were already moving on. Kids being kids. Goldfish memory. Three seconds and they were arguing about who ran faster or who jumped higher.
But I knew what I'd seen.
And some of them knew too—even if they didn't understand it. Or didn't want to.
Simon stepped closer, still grinning, completely oblivious to the tremor that had taken over my hands.
"Are you okay, Luca?" he asked, tilting his head like a confused puppy. "You look weird."
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
My mind was racing, snapping pieces together that I didn't want to fit, sketching a map I didn't want to see completed.
Magic.
Real magic.
This wasn't an alternate eighties London.
This wasn't a second chance in a world that only resembled mine.
This was another world.
A world where physics could be broken. Where kids could float for no reason. Where explosions got buried under cheap excuses because the truth was too impossible to print.
November 1st, 1981.
Clerkenwell.
A man in a long coat vanishing.
Simon floating with his eyes closed.
No.
No.
This couldn't be happening.
I didn't want this to be happening.
Because if it was true… if I really was in that world…
Then everything changed.
Everything.
The rules I knew didn't apply. The power I'd built in my old life meant nothing here. Contacts, money, influence—useless crap in a world where an eleven-year-old with a stick could make you forget your own name.
And my brother… my brother I'd been shaping, manipulating, training to be my tool…
He had something I probably didn't.
Magic.
What else didn't I know about this place?
What else didn't I know about myself?
"Luca." Simon's voice yanked me back. He stood in front of me, hand extended, still smiling. "Do we play again?"
I looked at him.
This kid I'd been molding like my first pawn. My tool.
Who had just floated.
And who didn't have a damn clue what that meant.
I took his hand. Small. Warm. Real.
"Yes," I said finally. "Let's play again."
But as we stepped back into position, one certainty drove into my head like a splinter:
I needed answers.
And I needed them now.
Before this world swallowed me the way it swallowed the man I used to be.