Jack decided to start small.
That thought followed him all the way home, riding beside him as he pedaled through quiet streets and warm afternoon air. Hollywood could wait. Big movies, red carpets, and award speeches belonged to a future version of him. Right now, he was sixteen, with a damaged reputation and a last name that opened doors he did not want to walk through yet.
Depending on his parents would be easy. One call, one dinner conversation, and things would move. He hated that idea.
In his last life, he had learned how fragile borrowed chances were. If someone else owned the key, they could lock the door just as easily.
So he needed something that was his.
Something he could build from nothing.
By the time he rolled his bike back into the garage, the answer had already settled in his mind.
Harry Potter.
The thought made him stop and laugh under his breath as he locked the bike. It felt almost criminal. Seven books, eight movies, a cultural juggernaut that had defined an entire generation in his old world. And here?
Nothing.
If there was ever a safe first move, this was it.
Up in his room, Jack dropped his bag by the door and went straight to his desk. He opened the laptop and pulled out Docs.
He typed.
Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.
Seeing the title again sent a strange ripple through him. Nostalgia mixed with disbelief. He had read these books until the pages softened. Watched the movies until he could quote them without thinking. He even auditioned for a side role, but didn't get it. And with just a bit of focus, he could visualize the pages right before his eyes.
A gift.
Or a cheat code, as he had started calling it.
Whatever force had dragged him out of that alley and dropped him here had not been subtle about it. Perfect recall and clean memory. Scenes, dialogue, structure, all waiting behind his eyes. It felt almost unfair.
Jack cracked his knuckles and leaned back in the chair for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
"Alright," he murmured. "Let's steal responsibly."
He leaned forward and started typing.
A few hours later...
Chapter Five.
Diagon Alley.
He smiled as he wrote about brick walls opening, about wonder spilling out onto Harry's face. The shops came alive under his fingers. Ollivanders, Gringotts, Cauldrons stacked in narrow windows. It felt like walking through an old neighborhood that somehow still surprised him.
Time slipped past unnoticed.
When he finally stopped, his fingers hovered over the keyboard. He reread the chapter once, then again, making only minor adjustments. A word here. A sentence there. Nothing major.
He saved the file and leaned back, exhaling slowly.
Five chapters.
Not bad for a start.
The practical questions that crept in next...
"Publishing, legalities, copyrights, pseudonym or real name," Jack mumbled to himself.
He already knew the answer to the last one. He would not hide. If this worked, he wanted the credit to stick.
That would come later.
For now, he needed consistency and definitely copyright.
Jack stood and stretched, joints popping softly. His body still surprised him sometimes, quick to respond, light in a way he had forgotten was possible. He grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge and drank half of it in one go.
The sun was setting by the time he sat back down.
He opened a browser tab and started researching publishing options and online platforms. He took notes. He was not rushing this. Speed killed more dreams than talent ever did.
Jack's stomach growled hard enough to pull him out of his thoughts.
He glanced at the clock on the corner of the laptop screen.
8:03 PM.
"…Yeah, that explains it," he muttered.
Lunch felt like a lifetime ago. He saved his work carefully, backed it up out of habit, then shut the laptop. The room suddenly felt quiet without the soft hum of the fan and the glow of the screen.
He stretched his arms and headed downstairs.
The house felt different at night. Softer lighting. Fewer echoes. The kind of quiet that only existed in places too big for their own good.
As he stepped into the living room, he stopped.
His father was sitting on the couch.
That alone was strange.
Richard Preston rarely appeared without warning. Meetings ran late. Flights ran later. When he came home, it was usually announced hours in advance by assistants and schedules. Not… this.
Richard sat with a newspaper unfolded in his hands, reading glasses perched low on his nose. He looked relaxed in a way Jack had never really seen before—jacket off, tie loosened, and a glass of water on the table beside him instead of something stronger.
Jack hesitated for half a second.
Then he remembered.
Act natural. Not arrogant. Just… normal.
"Hey," Jack said.
Richard looked up, surprise flickering across his face before smoothing into something more controlled. "You're home."
"Yeah. Uh. School ran a bit long." Jack shifted his weight, then added, "I was grabbing something to eat."
"Of course." Richard folded the paper and set it aside. "You can sit for a moment, if you want."
Jack nodded and moved to the armchair across from him. The leather was soft and expensive, like everything else in the house. He sat forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. He had seen enough meetings to know how posture worked in this family.
They sat in silence for a few seconds.
Richard studied him openly now, not even pretending otherwise.
"You went to school today," he said at last.
Jack did not bristle. That felt important.
"I did."
"And stayed the whole day."
"Yes."
Richard leaned back, fingers steepled. "Your teachers called."
Jack blinked. "Already?"
"They tend to," Richard said dryly. "Especially when something out of the ordinary happens."
Jack gave a small shrug. "I figured."
"They said you participated. Took tests. Passed them."
"Apparently."
Richard's gaze sharpened. Not suspicious exactly. He was just curious.
"You have not done that in some time," he said.
Jack met his eyes. "I know."
Another pause.
In his memories, this was usually where Jack Preston got defensive and made jokes while reminding his father that school was optional for people like them.
Jack did none of that.
"I messed up," he said instead.
The words landed heavier than he expected.
Richard's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Messed up how?"
Jack chose his next words carefully.
"I've been coasting. Acting like nothing mattered because I thought it would always work out." He glanced down briefly, then back up. "I don't want to do that anymore."
The silence stretched again, thicker this time.
Jack continued. "I'm sorry for everything. I messed up. I guess, early fame got to my head, or maybe it's just an excuse I'm making to get out of this mess... I don't know. Last night, I thought really hard about what I want to do with my life and realized I'm just wasting my time. You and mom gave me all kinds of opportunities and freedom and everything I could ever ask for, but I wasted them all. So, you don't have to believe me right away that I'm trying to change or can change... Just give me two months to prove to you that I can do much better. And once again, I'm sorry."
Richard did not answer right away.
He sat there, fingers still steepled, studying his son with an expression Jack could not quite read. It was not anger. Not disappointment either. If anything, it looked like caution, as if Richard were afraid to move too fast and shatter something fragile.
Jack held his gaze and forced himself not to fill the silence.
At last, Richard exhaled slowly and leaned back into the couch.
"That is the longest apology you have ever given me," he said.
Jack let out a breath he did not realize he was holding. "Yeah. I figured I owed you at least that much."
Richard's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "You usually owe me a shrug and a joke."
"I ran out of jokes."
That earned him a quiet huff of amusement.
Richard reached up and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. When he spoke again, his voice had softened.
"You understand why this is difficult for me," he said. "I have heard versions of this before. Promises, plans, bursts of motivation that burn hot and vanish just as quickly."
"I know," Jack said. "That's why I'm not asking you to believe me."
Richard glanced at him again. "Two months."
"Yes."
"And if nothing changes?"
"Then you'll be right," Jack replied calmly. "And you can block my cards."
The answer seemed to settle something.
Richard nodded once. "Fair."
Jack blinked. "Really?"
"Really," Richard said. "Two months. Your words..." He pointed his finger at Jack. "...remember that."
Jack felt something loosen in his chest. "Thank you."
Richard waved the words aside, though his eyes stayed on Jack. "Do not thank me yet. You are still responsible for the consequences of your past behavior. This does not erase anything."
"I don't expect it to."
"Good." Richard stood, smoothing the front of his shirt. "Your mother will want to hear about this."
Jack stiffened slightly. "Tonight?"
Richard considered it. "I'll tell her tomorrow. Let us not overwhelm the household in one evening."
Jack smiled faintly. "Thanks dad."
Richard paused at the edge of the room, then added, "One more thing."
Jack straightened. "Yeah?"
"I am glad you went to school today," Richard said. "Whatever the reason."
Then he walked away.
Jack sat there for a moment after his father disappeared down the hall, letting the quiet sink back into the room. His heart was still beating faster than normal, but it was not panic this time.
He stood and headed for the kitchen.
Dinner tasted better than it should have. He ate slowly, thinking through the next steps, replaying the conversation in his head. There were no guarantees. There never were. But he had something close to trust, or at least a ceasefire.
That was enough.
Later that night, back in his room, Jack opened the laptop again and resumed his work.
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