Lucan Hale lay sprawled across his bed, a worn book resting against his knees. The room around him was small but cozy, filled with the scent of fresh parchment and the faint traces of wood polish. His brown hair, short and slightly messy, caught the golden rays of the evening sun streaming through the window. His brown eyes moved intently across the page, absorbing every line.
The book he was reading was one of the few his father had trusted him with "Foundations of Practical Spellwork"by Miranda Goshawk. Alongside it sat a smaller, older tome, "Elementary Charms for the Young and Gifted," its edges frayed with age. Despite the grand-sounding titles, the spells inside were basic: Lumos, Nox, Wingardium Leviosa — the foundation stones for any young witch or wizard.
Lucan turned another page slowly, his mind half-drifting.
It had been two years now. Two years since he had died.
In his previous life, Lucan had been a regular sixteen-year-old boy, living an ordinary life filled with homework and games. His death had been sudden, a screech of tires, a flash of metal, and then nothing.
When he opened his eyes again, he found himself trapped in the body of an eight-year-old child in an unfamiliar house, surrounded by strangers who called themselves his family.
It had taken months to fully understand. He was in the Harry Potter world, a place he had only known through stories and films. His memories were intact, though hazy in places, and what little he remembered of the books had been a mixture of excitement and confusion. He knew the broad strokes: magic existed, there were schools like Hogwarts, and danger lurked in unexpected corners.
But magic...
Magic had not come easily to him.
Lucan shifted on the bed, frowning slightly. Even the simplest signs of accidental magic, the kind young witches and wizards often produced, had been weak for him. No floating toys, no shattering windows, no accidental vanishing acts. Once, when he was nine, his father had handed him his old wand for a private lesson in the woods behind the house. Lucan remembered how humiliatingly hard it had been to even summon a weak Lumos. Where other children's magic exploded out in unpredictable bursts, his fizzled and flickered, barely more than a spark.
It wasn't that he had no magic, but rather that his control, or perhaps his reserves, were painfully low.
A voice called out from downstairs, breaking his concentration.
"Lucan! Dinner's ready!" his mother shouted.
He sighed, placing the book down beside him. His fingers brushed over the leather spine almost longingly. Every word he read, every diagram he memorized, felt like a small step toward something greater.
He stood, glancing briefly at himself in the mirror. His frame was lean but already growing taller than most boys his age. His face was still soft, rounded with youth, but determination burned in his brown eyes. He wasn't here to be average. He refused to let this second life slip away meaninglessly.
Lucan hopped down the last few steps into the small kitchen where his family was already gathering. His mother, Claire Hale, bustled between the stove and the table, setting down a pot of steaming stew. She had brown curly hair pulled into a loose bun and warm brown eyes that somehow caught everything at once. His father, Marcus Hale, was already seated, a large man with a powerful build, a scar stretching from his cheekbone down to his jaw. His sharp brown eyes flicked briefly to Lucan before returning to the newspaper in his hand.
At the table, bouncing in her chair, was his younger sister, Amelia. She had inherited their mother's curls and wide, curious eyes, and she grinned up at Lucan the moment he walked in.
"'Bout time you showed up!" she said, sticking her tongue out playfully.
Lucan smirked and slid into his seat without a word. His stomach rumbled at the smell of the stew. His mother placed a bowl in front of him before sitting down herself.
"So," Marcus said, setting the paper aside, "how's the studying going?"
Lucan shrugged. "Good. I've been practicing the wand movements and memorizing spell theory... mostly."
"Mostly," Claire repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Don't burn yourself out, sweetheart."
"I won't," Lucan said. He poked at the stew with his spoon, though his mind was elsewhere.
In just a few months, he would be turning eleven, and that meant the Hogwarts letter would come.
The real beginning of everything.
"You excited for Hogwarts?" Amelia piped up, slurping her stew. "I can't wait until I get my letter too!"
Lucan gave a small smile. "Yeah. I am. It'll be good to finally use real magic... not just reading about it."
His father chuckled lowly. "Once you get there, you'll see it's not all fun. Homework, teachers breathing down your neck, older students hexing you when you're not looking... not to mention trouble if you get caught dueling in the halls."
Claire shot him a disapproving look. "Don't scare him, Marcus."
Marcus simply smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Better he knows it now. It's what kept me sharp when I was there. That's half the reason I got into the Auror Office straight out of Hogwarts."
His father was an Auror, a dark wizard catcher. It was a dangerous job, one that came with its own scars, both seen and unseen.
But it was also a life of strength and skill. Something Lucan deeply admired.
"I'll manage," Lucan said simply, returning to his food.
The rest of dinner passed in easy conversation. His mother talked about some muggle neighbors who thought their house was haunted (likely due to Amelia's accidental magic mishaps), and his father grunted occasional comments about Ministry nonsense.
When the plates were finally cleared and washed, Lucan retreated to his room, closing the door softly behind him.
He lit the small lamp on his desk and pulled out another book: "Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed."
Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he stared out the window into the starry night sky.
Three years.
That was how much time separated him from Harry Potter and the others.
He had overheard his parents mention it once: the Boy-Who-Lived was born in 1980.
Lucan had been born in 1977.
He knew he wasn't destined for greatness the way others were. His magic was mediocre. Even a simple spell like Lumos had been a struggle when his father first tried to teach him, and that was a basic charm taught to young children. His accidental magic had been mediocre at best.
But that didn't mean he couldn't outwork everyone else.
„Hard work beats talent, when talent doesn't work hard."
He needed to find ways around his limits. Potions to strengthen magical cores. Efficient spellcasting methods. Dueling techniques that prioritized speed and precision over raw power. Even forbidden magic, if it came to that.
Lucan leaned back against his pillow, his fingers tracing the spine of the book.
He wasn't just going to survive at Hogwarts.
He was going to thrive.
No matter what it took.