⚡ Here we go again.
It was one of those aggressively grey, monochromatic days hanging over the huge metropolis. Alex sat slumped in his ergonomic chair, the harsh glare of the computer screen reflecting in his tired eyes. He was wrestling with a college project—a sprawling, messy collage on the military and civilian applications of swarm drones. The sheer complexity of it was starting to make his head ache.
Suddenly, a loud, internal protest—a deep, gurgling groan—erupted from his stomach. Time to eat, I guess.
Without wasting another minute, Alex pushed back from the desk. The siren call of food was louder than the deadline. He walked briskly to the kitchen, only to be met by a frustrating, echoing silence. The cupboards were barren.
"Right. Eat out it is, then," Alex muttered to himself, the decision made in an instant. He grabbed his keys, shrugged on a jacket, and headed for the main door, already anticipating a juicy burger.
The nearest spot was a place with the hilariously self-assured name, Eat & Believe: The Believable Bite. He'd almost made it home, his hunger satisfied, his mind wandering over the evening's plans.
He was crossing a busy intersection, head down, probably already thinking about the drone project again, when it happened. Alex never heard the screech of the tires, never noticed the enormous truck speeding through the yellow light. One moment, he was walking; the next, there was a deafening flash of white, a crushing impact, and then... everything went black.
Alex woke in a void—a cold, infinite expanse of nothingness. He felt weightless, adrift. A growing panic tightened his chest.
"Where—Where am I?" His voice sounded thin, swallowed instantly by the silence. "Hello! Hello! Is there anyone here?!"
"Welcome, Alex."
The voice was sudden, resonating in his mind more than his ears, and laced with an unnerving, ageless calm.
"Who are you?" Alex demanded, squinting into the dark, searching for the source.
"I have many names. You might call me God, or perhaps an R.O.B.—a Random Omnipotent Being, if you prefer your internet jargon."
A chilling thought sank in. "Am I dead?"
"Yes, Alex. You are indeed dead. A momentary lapse of attention, a speeding truck, a tragically premature end."
Alex felt a strange mix of disbelief and resignation. "So, what happens now? Do I go to Heaven, Hell, or stand trial for my sins?" He tried to sound casual, but his voice shook.
The voice chuckled—a sound like distant, tinkling bells. "Nothing so dramatic. You died before your allotted time was truly over. Therefore, you are entitled to a restart. Tell me, where would you like to be reborn?"
Alex's breath hitched. A thrill shot through the panic. "Anywhere? Even... even a fictional world?"
"Yes, little Alex. Anywhere your heart desires. So tell me, where would you like to spend your next life?"
The answer was immediate, bursting from a lifetime of fandom. "I want to be reborn in the Harry Potter world. And I want to keep my memories."
"That's all you ask for? Not power, wealth, or eternal life?"
"Yes! Just the chance to live there, knowing what I know."
"Very well. Then I should give you a gift, an accelerator for your wish." The voice seemed amused. "You will receive your memories and your gift on your fifth birthday. Until then, enjoy the quiet. See you later, Alex."
Then, the oppressive darkness returned, and Alex knew nothing more.
August 7th, 1980.
In a cozy, somewhat frantic hospital room, the clock crept towards five in the morning.
"It's all your fault, Chris Thorne! 'Everything will be alright, baby,' you said!" Lyra Thorne snapped, exhausted and sweaty, but with a fire in her eyes.
Chris, pale and nervously wringing his hands, tried to soothe her. "Don't give me your sympathy," she warned, and he wisely backed off.
At 5:29 AM, the room filled with the piercing, glorious cries of a newborn. Lyra's fury melted into a blinding, protective love as she gazed at the face of her tiny baby boy.
"Honey, what should we name our little man?" Chris asked softly, finally daring to approach.
Lyra looked down at the future she held. "Atlas. Atlas Chris Thorne," she said, a smile trembling on her lips. "He's going to hold up our world."
"It's a perfect name, honey," Chris whispered, leaning in to kiss his wife.
Five years later.
August 7th. Atlas was deep in sleep when a sudden, jolting dream ripped through his unconsciousness. He saw a flash of a speeding truck, a computer screen, and a lonely apartment, and he woke up with a gasp, his small body drenched in sweat.
Alex! The name was a phantom on his tongue. He was no longer Alex. He was Atlas.
"I've been reborn. I'm in a non-magical family... a Muggle family, I guess," he whispered, his five-year-old mind reeling with thirty years of previous life experience.
He remembered the voice: You will receive your memories and your gift on your fifth birthday.
"What about the gift?"
Just as the thought formed, a shimmering, golden letter materialized out of thin air, hanging suspended before his eyes. It was written in script that seemed to glow.
Happy Birthday, Atlas.
I know you are wondering what gift I have given you. It is the raw ability to control the Elements and the affinity for Technomancy—the magical manipulation of technology. Use them wisely.
Good luck with your life.
Note: You may safely use Aquamancy (Water control) after this letter disappears. For the rest of the elements and Technomancy, you must practice and find your own ways to master them.
The letter crumbled instantly into golden motes of light and scattered. Knok! Knok!
"Happy Birthday, Baby!" Lyra's cheerful voice chirped from the hallway.
Atlas took a deep, steadying breath, burying Alex's panic under Atlas's five-year-old exterior. "Thanks, Mom! And Good Morning."
"Where's Dad?"
"He's gone for his morning run. He'll be back in twenty minutes, so hurry up and get ready!"
Twenty minutes later, a beaming Chris Thorne walked into the house, towel around his neck. "Good Morning, Atlas! And many, many happy returns of the day! So, birthday boy, what do you need for a gift?"
Atlas, his mind already churning with plans, looked at his father. "Dad, you're a Professor of Robotics at the university. Can you teach me all the basics? Everything you know?"
Chris's eyes widened with pride. "Oh, you want knowledge, then! As expected from my son!"
Lyra entered the dining room with breakfast. "And after breakfast, I will teach you how to draw art and calligraphy. We need balance, young man."
Atlas felt a warmth that was entirely new and entirely wonderful. "Thanks, Mom and Dad. You are the best."
Chris scooped him up. "Well, today, we visit the Bristol Robotics Laboratory! Get ready, son. I'm going to show you the latest tech in computer science and robotics!"
The family arrived at the lab. Alex's old cynicism momentarily surfaced in Atlas's mind: Well, what can this lab show me that I haven't seen in 2025?
They were met by a colleague. "Professor Chris! Welcome to my humble abode!"
"Professor Neil, I brought my son. He wants to see and learn all about robotics and computer science," Chris explained.
Professor Neil crouched down, a kind smile on his face. "Good Morning, Young man. What's your name?"
"Atlas Chris Thorne, Professor Neil!"
"Well, Atlas, are you ready for the adventure of your life?"
The tour began. Professor Neil led them through the different experiments, explaining things as if to a small child, while Atlas dutifully feigned fascination. He absorbed the information, sorting the genuinely new concepts from the outdated ones, building a mental map of 1980s technology.
By late afternoon, the tour ended, and they returned home. "Tomorrow," Lyra announced, "we start the basics: maths, English, arts, and calligraphy."
The next day, the advanced lessons began quickly. Atlas burned through English and Maths like a dry sponge drinking water, showing his parents an almost unnerving intellectual maturity. The only stumbling blocks were art and calligraphy; they required patience and muscle memory, and he had to work at them, slowing him down.
That night, Atlas took his first bath as his true self. The door was locked. He held out his hand and focused, channeling the innate, cool magic. A small, perfect sphere of water lifted from the bath and hovered above his palm. Aquamancy. It worked.
Then, drawing on his old knowledge of thermodynamics, he focused on cooling the molecules down, way down. The sphere shivered, grew cloudy, and then transformed into a solid ball of ice, which he shattered against the tile into thousands of pieces.
"So the elements are working," he murmured. "I should test my Technomancy on some outdated computer hardware."
Two years later. Atlas was seven.
His world was a blur of deliberate, focused learning. He had torn through the university books his father brought him—robotics, electrical circuits, computer science, and, crucially, weather functions and local forecasting. Chris had given him a relic—an Intel 8086 with Windows 2.0, old microcontrollers, and electrical engineering student kits—perfect practice for his dormant Technomancy.
His art and calligraphy were now significantly improved; he could sketch different perspectives and had even started learning Latin alongside his calligraphy practice.
After dinner that night, Atlas walked up to his bedroom, the weight of his knowledge heavy on his small shoulders.
By 1995, Voldemort will come back. He will start destroying and killing Muggle-borns.
The thought was a physical, ice-cold punch to his gut. His parents, Chris and Lyra Thorne, were Muggles, non-magical, defenseless.
"We have money, but not the magical protection," he whispered to the silence. "It looks like I have to use the Technomancy skill to create some kind of force field around the property. And I need to give my parents lockets that protect them from danger."
He had eight years. The game had begun.