The days passed in an endless routine. Even in this new life, I had to attend a regular school. There was nothing strange about that… and yet, something felt off. Even there—not just in the orphanage—people seemed to ignore me. As if being a shadow was part of who I was. The only moments when my name was uttered aloud were in the mornings—during roll call.
"Oliver Peverell?"
The teacher's voice was dry, my reply a quiet "present," and that was it. No questions. No conversations.
I quickly stopped thinking about it. The less attention drawn to me, the better. Shadows don't ask questions. Shadows survive.
My attempts with magic brought no results. Every night, once everyone had gone to bed, I would sit in my room, whisper "Lumos," and mimic the wand movement with my hand. Nothing. Not a flicker, not a spark, not even a tingling in my fingers. Just that familiar tug—like something moved inside me and was instantly crushed. Week after week, the same.
I began to suspect my magic truly was sealed.
But I wasn't afraid of being a squib. I knew the magic was there—I could feel it. Deep. So deep... and imprisoned. There had to be a trigger. Something that would wake it. I just needed to find it.
In the meantime, I decided to focus on something else. If I couldn't train my magic, I'd train my body. Wizards far too often neglect their physicality, relying solely on their wands. But I didn't want to be like them. Agility, endurance, control over your own body—that's the foundation of any duel, any real fight.
The exercises were modest. A few push-ups, sit-ups, and squats each night. A 300-meter run on the way home from school. Nothing crazy, but for an eight-year-old body weakened by years of malnourishment, it was still a challenge. I knew I'd be able to do more in time.
During that period, I also learned something important. I asked one of the caretakers about the day I was found. She said it was just after midnight on August 1st. Apparently, I looked like I had just been born—silent, wrapped in tattered cloth, abandoned at the doorstep.
If that was true… then I was born on July 31st.
The end of the seventh month.
Exactly like Harry Potter.
My heart froze for a moment. I remembered the prophecy. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…" Was it just coincidence? Hard to say. I had no way to confirm or deny it. Still… something about that date unsettled me.
I didn't want to be part of Harry Potter's story. I didn't want to chase Voldemort. I didn't want to be a hero.
I wanted to live. I wanted to be… me.
So, I buried the thought. Without answers or tools, it would only weigh me down.
Still, somewhere in the darkest corner of my mind… a suspicion began to take root.
There was something else I couldn't ignore. The more time passed, the more I noticed something I'd been dismissing.
This wasn't just the usual lack of connection with other children. It wasn't simple childish disinterest or exclusion.
It was something more. Something deeper.
I was invisible.
In the literal sense—as if my existence didn't quite align with the rules of this world. Teachers wouldn't acknowledge me unless required to. Kids never asked me to join their games. Even during group assignments, I was always automatically assigned somewhere, and no one questioned it.
Eventually, I understood—it wasn't about my personality. It was something… else. As if the world itself was trying to forget me.
It was a strange feeling—being excluded, erased. For some reason, it hurt. It frustrated me. My peers weren't on my level mentally. But the longer this went on, the more I felt myself sinking down to theirs. I started to feel like I did in my first life—quiet, unnoticed. Back then, I didn't see it because I didn't have time to think. I stayed busy, escaping reality through games and stories.
I thought that coming to a world of magic would change everything. But it didn't. At least not yet.
"Guess it's time for bed. School tomorrow."
Before falling asleep, I looked out the window.
The sky was cloudy, but between the heavy clouds, a few stars slipped through. One of them blinked—barely visible, as if saying, "I'm still here."
I smiled slightly. Maybe I was alone. Maybe the world was ignoring me.
But I was still here. Breathing. Thinking. Waiting.
Waiting for something more. For a change.
And just like that, the first year since arriving in this world ended. It was September 1st, 1989. Two more years until Hogwarts.
Year Two
There was no great moment. No magical explosion. No divine revelation.
Everything happened… slowly.
My body began to change—not magically. Nothing of the sort. Just the quiet results of daily workouts, consistency, and maybe that stubborn determination. I could do twice the push-ups now. The run home didn't exhaust me like before. I no longer wheezed like an old dog after 300 meters.
I felt stronger. Not much, but enough to notice.
There was a strange satisfaction in that. In a world where I was waiting for a great magical awakening, patience turned out to be my greatest strength.
My magic remained sealed.
But the world around me… began to shift.
Sometimes things in my room were out of place, even though I hadn't touched them. A few times, the door opened before I could reach the handle. Once, after I fell and groaned in pain, I saw dust rise into a shape that resembled… something.
Not a ghost. Not a person. Something in-between.
It vanished as quickly as it appeared, but it left a chill down my spine. The feeling that something was watching me. And no—it wasn't scary.
It was familiar. Like a shadow clinging to me, waiting.
Over time, I started dreaming… differently.
They weren't dreams from my old life—no fanfics, no games, no fantasy scenarios. They were quiet. Hazy. Seemingly meaningless, yet somehow… heavy.
Sometimes I saw a mirror.
I stood before it—a nine-year-old boy with messy black hair and eyes that had not yet shown their heritage. But in the reflection, something was wrong. Behind me stood a figure. Too tall. Too still. I couldn't see their face, but I felt… they were waiting. Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching.
I'd wake up drenched in sweat, but not afraid. It wasn't a nightmare.
It was… a warning?
Other times I dreamed of objects. Ancient books with no words. Keys with no locks. Stones that cried blood. Strange, absurd things. But I always woke with the feeling that I would see them one day. That they were real.
I once read about dream magic. Maybe something inside me—whatever I was trying to unlock—was already trying to speak to me?
But I had no answers.
By day, everything seemed normal. Orphanage, school, training. Sometimes people glanced my way. A teacher stuttered on my name, as if for a moment they didn't know I existed.
It was less strange now. I was getting used to it.
Loneliness? Well… it was like an old coat. Maybe not comfortable, but familiar. I knew I was alone. That I had no one. But I didn't suffer because of it. Not yet, anyway. Honestly, I was beginning to embrace it.
Just like in my first life.
I didn't know when things would change. But I felt it.
Everything would change. Sooner or later.
July 30, 1990 – The Day Before My Birthday
Summer break was in full swing. The orphanage felt quieter than usual, though maybe it was just my imagination. Soon, two years would have passed since I came to this world—two years of waiting, watching, silence.
And now… something was changing.
It started small. A staff member looked me in the eyes and asked if I was okay. Another, who had never shown interest in me, rested her hand on my shoulder and smiled—like she really saw me.
Children invited me to play football. And I did.
Not as a ghost. Not as a shadow.
As someone who existed.
It was strange. Unfamiliar… but not unpleasant.
My dreams were still strange. But now, they carried something more—calm before the storm. As if everything inside me was holding its breath.
Since yesterday, my eyes have been itching. Not on the surface. Deep inside. As if something is waking, trying to break free.
Magic around me feels… alert. Sensitive. Sometimes doors open before I touch them. Objects shift on their own. The other day, it rained while I was outside—but I didn't get wet. Not a single drop touched me.
Like nature itself was holding its breath.
This afternoon, I saw a cat on the fence. It stared at me with amber eyes, unmoving. It didn't flee as I approached. Didn't blink. Just… watched. As if it knew.
That evening, the hallway clock stopped. Its hands froze at 11:59, though the second hand kept ticking. I stared for a long time, then turned away. I didn't have the strength to ask questions.
Everything in me trembles. As if the world is inhaling.
I don't know what will happen tomorrow.
But I know one thing.
I won't be the same boy anymore.
AN:
And that wraps up Chapter Three — the stillness before the storm, both literally and metaphorically. Oliver is just a step away from awakening, and the world... well, the world already feels it.