O'Shea Wyllt now occupied this body, and the log lying over him was Shayna Wyllt—ten years younger than him, a whole five years of cuteness condensed into one surprisingly heavy child. They were the children of Elaine Rayne and Arzan Wyllt.
From what the politician could piece together, the body he now occupied had been recreating a ritual—some form of strengthening magic. The ritual failed. Or rather, it appeared to fail. There were no immediate consequences, no dramatic backlash. Instead, the soul's consciousness dispersed slowly over time.
That vacancy was where he crossed over.
Now then, as a politician, what was the first thing to do?
Adapt.
The boy died. He got a body. From now on, he would adventure in the name of O'Shea Wyllt.
What surprised him was that even though he never read Harry Potter very carefully back in his home world, he remembered enough to know that this place was not exactly the same as the books everyone was so fond of. There were differences. Important ones.
Take the Wyllt family.
The family he was born into here was one of the major power brokers of this world—a continental powerhouse in Europe, with more than seventy High Wizards, thirteen Warlocks, and seven Archmages. If the memories of this boy were correct, then they were among the finest families not just in England, but in the entire world.
And yet—
What use was so much power kept secret?
Still, now that he was here, he occupied the body of one of their descendants. World conquest sounded tempting, but first things first. Control the family. That started with his so-called parents.
And this kid.
"Fuck," he thought. "I'm going to conquer this family, and then the rules of this world will be rewritten."
Step one: get this child off him.
What a healthy kid. Did parents here have no shame at all? How did so much food fit into a five-year-old's body? He would have to slim her down later. At least then she would be useful—
That was when everything went dark.
One moment he was present, firmly in control of his body, and the next he was nothing—wiped away, erased so completely that the transition itself terrified him. Control was ripped away, and when sensation returned, it did so violently. His eyes refused to work. Panic followed instantly, sharp and primal. Fresh from death, he felt himself unraveling, as though he was dissolving in water.
But it wasn't his body that was coming apart.
It was his soul.
Fragments of thought slipped away—ambition, conquest, strategy—scattering before he could grasp them. For a moment, he was convinced this was the end. And conviction of a politician was rarely wrong.
Sometime later—minutes, hours, no one had any way of knowing—the pieces settled back into place.
O'Shea woke up with a violent gasp as pain tore through him. It was everywhere, crushing and absolute. The terror of near death collided with the agony of a soul broken apart and forcibly reshaped. The overload was too much.
He awoke, breathed, then promptly fainted.
When he woke again a few hours later, something was poking his face.
Instead of pain, the first thing he felt was bliss.
Not because the pain was gone. Not because the magic felt stronger.
It was bliss because his sister was there, awake—and she was the one poking him.
His eyes opened slowly and saw her hovering above, face scrunched up, tears trembling at the corners. The moment she realized O'Shea was awake, she promptly burst into tears.
"Meawie… ywu not gwtting wup. I fweel scawed."
Oh.
She must have come in during the night to sleep beside her brother. When morning came and he did not wake—did not respond—fear took hold of her tiny heart.
Now that he was awake, her emotions started spilling over.
Dear lord. What an unbearably cute menace.
She needed to be calmed down quickly, or mother would come in and start breaking someone's legs and in this particular case that someone being him.
"Cutie," he said softly. "Brother was just playing. Don't cry. You won't look pretty if you cry. Mother will beat me again if you cry—you don't want mother to beat me, right, Sha?"
She hiccupped, sniffling, considering this very seriously.
"Let's play castles today, alright? Brother will make you a super castle after breakfast. Come on, smile. Yes, yes—see how pretty you look when you smile."
She wiped her cheeks with her sleeves and peered at him.
"Dow I lwook as pwetty as mowther?"
The lisp was mostly gone now, just faintly lingering at the edges.
How cute.
Fresh from his near-death experience, O'Shea finally understood just how difficult it would have been to succeed in the ritual he had been planning—alone.
More than difficult, really. Fatal.
If not for interference from an elder of his family—perhaps even an ancestor—his life would have ended permanently. The soul remained in his body only because someone intervened. Otherwise, that damned politician would have taken over completely.
The ritual itself had not failed. That was the cruel irony.
Its purpose had been to make the body more accepting of magic, to refine its capacity and flow. In that regard, it succeeded too well. The newly strengthened magic surged through a body that could not yet withstand it, causing the structure to fragment under the strain. The soul, unable to anchor itself, dispersed.
That was when the elder acted. His soul was preserved—held together along with the excess energy of the ritual—and later restored in pristine condition, placed back where it belonged.
Now came the truly interesting part.
During the brief window when his body lay vacant, another soul crossed over into it. The politician.
When his soul was restored and guided back—displacing the foreign presence with surprising ease under the ancestor's guidance—control returned to him. The other soul should have left cleanly.
It didn't.
Instead, it dissipated.
And since a soul was, at its core, a pure form of magic, rather than escaping his body, it merged into him. It strengthened his existing soul. When combined with the completed ritual layered on top of that reinforcement, the result was undeniable.
His magic had skyrocketed.
Everything was done now. The danger had passed. All that remained was to dissect the memories of the politician and understand what fragments of him still lingered.
But first—
Sandcastles.
After breakfast, he carried Shayna to the creek near their house. He had promised to look after her, which meant his parents wouldn't disturb him before lunch. He started by setting up a hammock beneath a tree for shade, laid out some snacks, and prepared himself for the day.
As his soul had been dispersing, memories of his life had flashed before his eyes—one after another. Of all the regrets he felt in that moment, the sharpest was how little time he had spent with his family.
His father was a newly minted High Wizard of the family. His mother had already reached that rank and was widely expected to become the next Warlock. She was considered one of the most talented witches of her generation, her abilities compared openly to legendary figures like Rowena Ravenclaw. The continuous growth of her power, coupled with fierce competition within the family for resources, had caused friction between his parents.
But Shayna and he had largely been shielded from that.
Both of his parents loved spending time with their children. He was the one who pulled away.
He had been obsessed—with the greatness of the family, with the enormity of magic, with visions of what he might someday become. He buried himself in research, reading ancient myths and magical theory in the family library. In hindsight, it was almost embarrassing. What meaningful research could an adolescent conduct in a lineage of generational wizards?
That obsession built an invisible wall between him and the rest of his family. His relationships weren't bad—but they were distant.
This near-death experience changed that.
Shayna, on the other hand, was loved by everyone. Even factions opposed to his parents agreed on one thing: she was unbearably cute. He wasn't present at her birth, but he'd heard the stories. Crying, smelly, freshly born—and instantly adored. His grandmother, the sister of the current patriarch, had taken to her immediately.
That was supposedly where her name came from.
Shayna. A blessing.
She was the first—and only—female child of his generation.
With both his parents being geniuses and him only averagely talented, expectations naturally shifted to her. Magical talent couldn't be measured directly before spellcasting—it was defined by capacity and conductivity—but projections were optimistic. By eleven, it was believed her magical force would rival that of a fully trained graduate.
Impressive.
For now, though, she relied entirely on clumsy cuteness—climbing trees, clinging to anyone's shoulders like a little monkey.
His so-called magical research now struck him as laughable. He always chose topics far beyond his level, ensuring he stayed busy while achieving very little. That busyness robbed him of time with Shayna—but blood had a way of overriding neglect. She stayed close to him regardless.
As those memories replayed, regret hit harder than fear ever had. There was so much magic he could have pursued later—but only so much time he could have spent with his family before it was gone.
That was what mattered now.
Memories.
Happy ones.
Moments he could carry through difficult days and into old age.
This family—this love—was what he had been given a second chance to protect.
Magic would come with time. Tomorrow, he would grow stronger so he could protect them, just as the elder had protected him.
But today—
Today was for castles.
"Brother, which castles will we make today?"
"We'll make my school," O'Shea said. "Hogwarts."
"No. I know that one. Uncle Robin taught me." She puffed up proudly. "Let's make a big castle. Super big."
"Alright, but Hogwarts is super big too."
"Is it bigger than grand da's castle?"
That did it. Anyone else—direct descendants included—wouldn't dare shorten the patriarch's title. Shayna did it openly, even in public, and the old man laughed every time. The old man loved it. Otherwise, mother would have corrected her already.
"Um… no."
She smiled, victorious.
"Then make grand da's castle."
She meant Garhys—the ancestral seat of the Wyllt family. For centuries, the family headquarters and primary magical laboratory had stood on the Hemlock Islands near the Pacific Ocean. Side branches lived across Europe and beyond, but the patriarch and the core strength always remained there.
Children were usually forbidden from visiting due to the sheer volume of magical experimentation. Only twice a year—Christmas and summer—were they welcomed.
Shayna was the exception.
Every week, she rode on their grandparents' shoulders, quiet and curious, adored by the older generation who pinched her cheeks endlessly.
"Alright," he said. "Let's make it."
"Make an ocean too. Use your stick."
"It's called a wand, sweetie. You have one too."
"Uh-uh. Mama says I have to grow as tall as her waist before I get a working one."
"Fair enough. Then watch closely."
He spent the rest of the morning and afternoon levitating sand, shaping it with Finite and structure charms, floating the castle atop the creek like an island. By lunch, they had a respectable replica of Garhys.
They were both sweaty.
Shayna was ecstatic.
And O'Shea was finally doing what he should have done all along—making memories.
The thing no one ever talked about was that, despite being cute, most children were unbearably talkative. Not talkative like a normal person—talkative in quantity, like a middle-aged aunt who had cornered you at a family gathering and showed no intention of stopping. O'Shea learned this the hard way after spending a single evening with little Shayna.
Frankly, wizards ought to research a child's mind rather than magic. It was far more complex.
One moment Sha—as they called her at home—was animatedly describing the castles she had built, and the next she was muttering darkly about how her pretend wand no longer performed "good magic." Most of her conversation revolved around which grandmother or grandaunt she liked best at Hemlocks, followed closely by an in-depth analysis of food and what tasted the most delicious.
From her chatter alone, it could be deducted that she was fond of at least seven grandaunts—surprisingly, some of whom belonged to entirely different factions. Apparently, her cuteness worked not only on their direct branch but also on relatives from rival lines. A terrifying ability, really.
As was expected of a millennium-old power, the family had several factions. These were not formed around philosophies of rule, methods of governance, or even succession disputes. No single faction could ever dictate family decisions. At least four-fifths of the warlocks were required to approve any major course of action before it was enacted.
The factions existed because every warlock was entitled to create a branch family. Each time a wizard ascended to warlock status, a new faction inevitably emerged—particularly if the individual found the existing power structure unsatisfactory. These factions competed internally, but it was largely a healthy competition: prestige, resources, and rewards were allocated based on contribution to the family as a whole.
In that sense, the factions resembled Hogwarts houses. All belonged to the same family, yet each was led by a different warlock, vying for better results. The difference was that results here determined control over resources—and the greatest prize of all: tutelage under an Archmage, reserved only for those who consistently proved themselves indispensable.
Currently, the Wyllt family had six factions. Four were directly aligned with the main line. One opposed the main line outright due to an old rivalry between its warlock leader and current warlock leader. The final faction remained isolated, devoted entirely to magical research.
By the time both siblings returned home, the sun had set. Mother was already in the kitchen, cooking, while the house-elves fluttered about her like anxious birds. She looked up as they entered, smiled faintly, and said,
"Played enough, children?"
"Mama!" Shayna burst out excitedly. "We made a super big castle—like the grand da one— it was huge! Brother made it by the river. We even put dragons by the gate. They were very big."
"It's grandfather, sweetheart," Mother corrected gently. Then her expression sharpened. "And why were you standing in the water so long? You'll fall ill. O'Shea, that was most irresponsible. You—"
O'Shea interrupted swiftly, before she could gain momentum. His mother was gentle and kind, but once she began a tirade, she sounded like a senator filibustering the end of the world.
"Mother, I kept Sha on the shore most of the time," he said calmly. "And whenever she went into the water, I dried her off immediately. She was never wet for long. She won't fall ill."
"Mama, mama!" Shayna chimed in urgently, lifting her picnic basket. "Brother was very good to me. Don't be cross. He even brought fruits for you. See?"
She proudly displayed the fruits they had collected from the orchard—far more than either of them could eat. Shayna filled up quickly, and he chimed in with the rest—the proof of his innocence secured.
As Mother's voice began to rise, Shayna launched into her most devastating weapon: big eyes paired with overwhelming cuteness.
Mother glanced at the basket, sighed, then smiled.
"Very well," she said. "I won't scold your brother. Go wash up, both of you, and come down for supper."
Shayna bounced off toward her room, accompanied by Mara, her personal elf. Mother turned her attention back to him.
"Your father will not be returning anytime soon. He is overseas," she said. "I shall take you to the platform myself."
"It's alright, Mum," O'Shea replied. "Alar can take me as usual."
Alar was the head of family security and normally handled any travel to and from for underage wizards—except on the first day of term, when the entire family attended.
"I am not occupied in the coming days," she said. "I will go with you."
"Alright."
At dinner, Shayna enthusiastically recounted their adventures to Mother, embellishing freely. He added comments where necessary. Mother listened, smiled throughout, and whether it was heightened perception or something deeper, she seemed genuinely happy.
Seeing his closest family laughing together eased something tight in his chest. It dulled the lingering trauma of the ritual and reinforced his resolve to care for them properly.
After dinner, he retired to his room and focused on retrieving the memories left behind by the foreign soul. To his surprise, the memories were completely unguarded, overflowing, unprotected. For a senior politician, he had expected resistance. Perhaps the soul had already dispersed. Or perhaps it was simply because he was a Muggle.
Accessing the memories felt less like observation and more like immersion—like a Pensieve, except he was the man living those moments. As the memories dissolved, they nourished his soul. By the time he finished, he would inherit not just the experiences, but the skills.
The politician came from the same planet, but a different timeline—somewhere in the 2020s, nearly four decades ahead. His life was filled with politics, rivalries, contingencies, and ruthless pragmatism. He was socially adept, yet utterly alone, trusting no one.
If O'Shea ever formed his own faction, this knowledge would be invaluable, though dangerously unrestrained. Murder and chaos were acceptable tools to the politician. Still, beyond family politics, such skills would be terrifyingly effective.
Among all the memories, one stood out.
Harry Potter.
In the politician's world, Harry Potter was fiction. Here, it was the future—future which was supposed to happen. O'Shea didn't understand how those memories crossed timelines, but knowing what was to come filled him with an exhilarating sense of opportunity.
He was currently a fifth year at Hogwarts. Many names destined for legend were still obscure. His first priority was recruitment.
He did not intend to rule the wizarding world outright. Influence, however, was invaluable. It would elevate his standing within the family and open countless avenues.
He spread parchments all over the floor—enlarged them with a quick engorgement charm and began drafting lists: those unaffiliated with Dumbledore, those not entrenched with the Dark Lord, and neutral yet influential figures. He mapped known future events, layering contingencies and advantages.
By midnight, he had a rough roadmap. As soon as mapping the future was done, he turned towards sleep. But in a moment or so, his door creaked open. Shayna entered, clutching her teddy bear.
As usual.
She stopped when she saw him awake—normally, he was strict. But today, he smiled and beckoned. She happily climbed into bed, eyes wide and hopeful.
Guilt stabbed him. He had neglected her before.
Not anymore.
He stroked her hair and told her a story—about a bumbling fool and flying.
That night, he decided something important.
The most valuable thing he had to protect in this world was not power, legacy, or magic.
It was the smile of the silver-eyed child beside him.