The school bell rang with its usual dull clang, and as expected, the entire building erupted into what could only be described as a stampede. Sneakers squeaked against the tiled floors, kids pushed through the doors like the place was on fire, and backpacks were swung like medieval flails.
Nate walked slower.
One week back into life and he still felt like a visitor in someone else's story. He'd slipped into Nate Taylor's skin—mostly. The memories of his eight-year-old self had stopped crashing into him every time he saw something familiar, but they lingered like background noise, soft but always there.
He wasn't entirely Harry anymore. But he wasn't just Nate either.
Outside, the afternoon sun spilled golden across the parking lot, and he spotted his mum before she saw him—leaning against their Vauxhall Astra, sunglasses slightly tilted, humming to the radio. She looked exactly like the kind of mum you'd expect in a well-off English suburb. The kind who knew how to make killer packed lunches and still find time to run the PTA.
"Oi, superstar!" she called out when she spotted him. "Ready for your big debut?"
He blinked. "Wait, what?"
She smiled wider. "Drama club. Talked to your teacher. Sorted it all out. Mr. Harris said you could sit in today."
Nate's heart jumped. That had been fast.
"But I thought—next week?"
"I am efficient, love. When my son asks me to help him follow his dreams, I act. Like Judi Dench in a twinset."
The "auditorium" at his school was a bit of a joke. It was really just a medium-sized multipurpose room with worn red curtains and fold-up chairs that squeaked loudly enough to cause actual embarrassment.
But to Nate? It looked like opportunity.
That was where he met Mr. Harris. Greying hair, a beard that looked like it was sculpted by accident, and a tweed jacket even though it was still summer. He looked like someone who either taught English or secretly wrote detective novels under a pen name.
"You must be Nathaniel," he said, clipboard under his arm.
"Nate, actually."
"Ah. A stage name already. I like it."
Mr. Harris was... something else. He spoke in dramatic pauses and sipped from a chipped mug that said 'World's Okayest Director'.
The kids were rehearsing Peter Pan—or at least, a very chaotic version of it. Someone was wearing tights over their jeans and trying to climb a stack of milk crates. Another kid was waving a stick like it was a sword and yelling "TO NEVERLAND!" on loop. Two girls in oversized cardigans were pretending to fly by flapping their arms furiously.
It was brilliant.
And completely insane.
Nate didn't exactly blend in, but he didn't feel out of place either.
Sure, he wasn't a great actor yet. He stumbled over lines and forgot stage directions. He waved to the audience once when he wasn't supposed to. And during one rehearsal, he accidentally knocked over the fake pirate ship, sending "Captain Hook" into a pile of costume boxes.
But he was having fun.
Real fun.
For the first time since waking up in this second-chance life, he didn't feel like he was acting. He just... was.
Over the next few weeks, drama club became his favourite part of the day.
They met every other day after school. Sometimes they worked on scenes, other times Mr. Harris just let them improvise wildly. One time, Nate had to pretend he was a squirrel who found out his acorns were stolen by a raccoon mob boss. He took the role very seriously. So seriously that Mr. Harris chuckled for a full minute and told him, "You're weird, kid. I like it."
Outside of drama club, life settled into a rhythm.
Rusty, their golden retriever with a tail like a feather duster, had made it his life mission to follow Nate everywhere. The dog now had a permanent seat next to Nate's bed, and if Nate even thought about sneaking a biscuit, Rusty would appear like a snack-seeking ghost.
At dinner, his parents had started noticing his slight shifts.
"Did you notice Nate's been... different lately?" his dad said one night, pouring himself a cup of tea as Nate washed his hands in the hallway.
His mum raised an eyebrow. "You mean how he hasn't asked for telly time all week? Or the fact he recited Shakespeare to Rusty yesterday?"
"Exactly. He asked me how many hours it would take to become 'good enough' at stage performance. He's eight."
"Well, I suppose kids grow fast. Maybe he's just inspired?"
"He's still our boy," she added. "Just... acting a little older than he should."
"Could be the drama club."
"Or maybe," she said, smiling softly, "he's just found something that makes him happy."
Nate stood in the hallway and pretended not to hear it, but their words nestled somewhere deep in his chest.
It wasn't all easy, though.
He still struggled with school. Not the work—God, the work was so basic it made him want to cry. It was the being an eight-year-old again part that messed with his head. Sitting in little chairs. Sharing crayons. Being called "Natey" by a teacher with glitter on her shoes.
Some days he missed being tall. Some days he missed coffee. Some days, he missed not having to ask for permission to use the toilet.
Still, he adjusted. Slowly.
By mid-September, the Peter Pan production was picking up steam. Mr. Harris cast Nate as Slightly, the Lost Boy with the best lines and most stage time after Peter. Nate threw himself into the role with everything he had.
At home, he'd practice with Rusty. The dog didn't judge. He just wagged his tail and barked on cue.
"You're taking this seriously," Mr. Harris said one evening, watching him rehearse while the rest of the kids tried to see who could yell "CROCODILE!" the loudest.
"I just... like it," Nate replied, tugging at the fake leather belt of his costume.
"You're not half-bad," Mr. Harris added, tapping his mug thoughtfully. "Give it a few years, maybe you'll be someone to watch."
Nate didn't reply, but a slow smile crept onto his face.
Because that's exactly what he wanted. And maybe, just maybe, this time around, he'd get it right.