"My head…"
It felt as though a red-hot iron rod had been driven straight through his skull. That was Roger's first sensation as he regained consciousness.
Roger struggled to sit up, his thoughts in complete disarray. Just moments ago he had been in the laboratory, running the final test on the Bio-computer project. How had he ended up here?
He realized he was curled up in the corner of a room. Beneath him were cold, damp flagstones, the chill seeping into his bones as the heavy stench of mildew and earth filled his nose. There were no windows. In the faint light, he could make out wooden walls.
This was clearly a wooden hut, not his laboratory.
Suddenly, fragments of memory surged into his mind like a dam bursting.
The original owner of this body had been a nameless wizard apprentice, captured somewhere at some point by a Dark Wizard who lived on the outskirts of London. Though called an "apprentice," he had really been nothing more than a test subject and a slave.
The Dark Wizard was old, cruel, and eccentric.
He would cast the Cruciatus Curse on the boy for no reason, driving him to the brink of madness and leaving behind only shattered memories.
The boy had once been caught trying to escape, and the Old Wizard had tortured him to death with the Cruciatus Curse. After absorbing all of this, Roger understood.
He had transmigrated.
Into the world of Harry Potter.
Unfortunately, Roger excelled in scientific research, while this was a world of magic.
Fortunately, he had read the books and watched the films.
He knew the background and the main plot. On the surface, it was a children's story about love and courage, but beneath that lay a world that was frighteningly dangerous.
By the moral standards of his previous life on Earth, Dark Wizards were not good people. In fact, perhaps none of them could truly be called good.
But he had to admit that these people were terrifyingly powerful.
Whether it was the two generations of Dark Lords, the ancient Dark Wizard Herpo who created Horcruxes, or Ekrizdis, who created Dementors, they all shared one trait: possession of extreme, unpredictable, and deadly power.
Unfortunately, Roger was now under the control of such a Dark Wizard. This hut was only a part of the man's magical pocket. If he went too far beyond it, he would be teleported back. There was nowhere to run.
Among the fragments of memory, the most common scene was the Old Wizard torturing apprentices with Dark Arts. The agony of the Cruciatus Curse was so intense that even the memories refused to retain it. The original owner of the body would lose consciousness within seconds.
Just as Roger tried to stand, something suddenly happened.
"Imperio!"
A sickly green spell-light shot through the doorway and struck him squarely. In an instant, an icy and tyrannical will seized control of his body. Like a marionette pulled by invisible strings, he was yanked upright and forced to march toward the door.
The books said the Imperius Curse would cloud the victim's mind and turn their body into a puppet. But to Roger, now experiencing it firsthand, his mind felt crystal clear. He was a prisoner inside his own flesh, forced to watch as his limbs obeyed another's will.
That bizarre power seized all of his attention. The sensation was… unique.
So this is magic? What principle drives it? The thought had barely formed when a line of information suddenly appeared in his mind:
[Ping! Insufficient data. Unable to parse. Requesting sustained observation for data collection.]
Roger's pupils shrank to pinpoints.
The Bio-computer… succeeded? It came with me? But it's a physical object… This… isn't scientific…
He instinctively activated the Bio-computer's observation routine. In an instant, a heavy force seemed to take over his body. Every sense sharpened, as if he had been sealed inside an iron container.
His movements, once smooth, became clumsy and unsteady.
As he stumbled out of the dark hut, the sudden sunlight struck him like countless needles, forcing tears to stream from his eyes.
Through the blur, a dark silhouette gradually came into focus. A figure stood there in filthy, tattered black robes that seemed to carry their own shadow. The deep hood concealed the face, revealing only a hooked, hawk-like nose.
While his controlled body shuffled toward the figure, the cold voice in his mind spoke again:
[Ping! Imperio database successfully established. Analysis progress at 10%.]
Roger's heart surged with joy. The Bio-computer that had crossed over with him could actually observe and analyze magical power.
A Bio-computer: an artificial brain boasting ultra-low power consumption, immense processing power, microscopic size, and massive storage capacity—a supercomputer you could carry with you.
A scholar could break free from computational limits and explore the unknown. An athlete could micromanage every muscle, optimizing biochemical reactions from the ground up to enhance strength, speed, and balance.
The original books had never explained the principles of magic, so spells had always felt somewhat awkward. Everyone could cast the Levitation Charm, yet only Lord Voldemort could fly. Time travel existed, yet no one could kill baby Voldemort.
If one truly grasped the essence of magic, where would its limits lie? Perhaps Lord Voldemort would be nothing more than an ant crawling across a grand hall.
By now, still under the Imperius Curse, Roger had reached the dark figure.
The instant the spell was lifted, a voice like a viper sliding over gravel hissed from beneath the hood, "Remember, there won't be a next time."
The Old Wizard's eyes were sinister. Had he not needed an errand boy, the apprentice who dared to run would not have lived another second.
The icy grip vanished. Roger collapsed as if his bones had been removed, gasping raggedly, his lungs rattling like broken bellows.
The moment his body struck the cold flagstones, the voice sounded again in his mind:
[Ping! Insufficient data. Imperio analysis halted at 10%.]
His first thought, absurdly, was that the Old Wizard could have kept casting Imperio a little longer. He needed more data.
Sir, I was wrong! I'll never run again! Thoughts were one thing, but standing before a Dark Wizard, he dared not slip up.
This man would kill him without hesitation. He would bide his time, wait for a chance to escape, and in the meantime gather whatever information he could about the Dark Arts. Perhaps he could unravel some of their mysteries.
The Old Wizard seemed satisfied with Roger's display of obedience. He coughed twice, his lungs wheezing, and shuffled a step closer.
From the shadows beneath the hood, a face emerged, carved with deep lines, its eye sockets like black pits. Muddy brown eyes, cloudy yet sharp as blades, fixed on Roger.
"Go…" he croaked, each word edged with ice. "Collect every drop of unicorn blood left in the room…"
He paused, the threat in his voice overlapping with the memory of the Cruciatus Curse. "Or you know what happens."
His tone was heavy with distrust.
.
.
.