Jack Carter's eyes snapped open, his chest heaving like he'd just come up for air after drowning.
He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
Above him stretched a grey, overcast sky, the clouds heavy with the promise of rain.
The ground beneath him was damp and cold a mixture of grass and muddy earth. He sat up slowly, his head pounding, and looked around.
He was in a field, somewhere in the British countryside.
Distant hills rolled into the horizon, and the faint outline of a village was visible in the distance.
His clothes were damp a dark jumper and faded trousers, the kind you'd find on someone scraping by.
He reached into his pocket instinctively and felt it: smooth, wooden, and unmistakably a wand.
"A wand…" Jack muttered, pulling it out.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the polished wood, a shiver ran up his spine.
It was simple, unadorned, and a little scuffed, like it had seen better days. "So, it's real," he said, staring at the thing.
He hesitated for a moment before giving it a wave.
Nothing happened.
"Figures," Jack muttered, rolling his eyes. "Fat lot of good I am as a wizard."
He leaned back against a tree, trying to calm his racing thoughts.
The memories came slowly, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that didn't quite fit together.
This wasn't his body not really.
Jack could feel that.
He didn't know the shape of these hands, the stretch of these limbs.
And yet, there were fragments.
A name floated to the surface: Edward Greenwood.
"Edward," Jack said aloud, testing the name. It felt strange, foreign, but it belonged to this body. His body now.
Memories began trickling in.
Edward Greenwood was muggle-born, one of the countless kids plucked out of normal life and thrust into the magical world.
Hogwarts had been a dream, but not for long.
The reality of being a muggle-born especially one with barely passable magical talent was far from rosy.
Edward had struggled through every class, his wandwork clumsy, his spells barely functional.
Potions had been a nightmare, and Transfiguration might as well have been ancient runes.
"And the prize for Most Useless Wizard goes to me," Jack muttered, shaking his head. "Great start."
The fragmented memories became sharper. Edward's Hogwarts years were a blur of frustration, failure, and isolation.
He had no talent for magic, not really.
The wand in his hand birch wood, 12 inches, with a unicorn hair core was perfectly average, and so was he.
At least, that's what his professors had told him.
By the time Edward had left Hogwarts, he was barely more skilled than a first-year.
His OWLs were mediocre, and his NEWTs were almost non-existent.
He had scraped by, graduated, and then... what?
Jack closed his eyes, letting the memories come.
Edward had worked in the magical world after Hogwarts, but only barely.
He'd taken odd jobs, often those that no one else wanted. Cleaning old potion shops, delivering supplies, doing menial work that required more patience than skill.
The magical world wasn't kind to muggle-borns, especially ones who weren't extraordinary.
Edward had struggled to make ends meet, living in a tiny flat above a dodgy wizarding pub in a forgettable corner of wizarding Britain.
But it wasn't the wizarding world that had killed Edward.
No, it was the bridge between the two. Edward had slipped up something simple, something stupid.
He'd left his wand lying out in his flat when his landlord came by, a nosy old man who didn't take kindly to "freakish" things.
The man had reported Edward to the Ministry. Improper use of magic by a muggle-born was always treated harshly, and the punishment had been swift.
"Damn it," Jack muttered, running a hand through his hair.
The memories left a sour taste in his mouth.
Edward hadn't been killed directly, but he might as well have been.
Stripped of his wand by the Ministry and left with no way to defend himself, Edward had been cornered in the streets by a group of pure-blood thugs.
It hadn't taken long for the curses to fly.
Edward Greenwood had died because he'd been powerless.
Weak.
Jack gritted his teeth, clutching the wand tightly in his hand. "That's not happening again."
Jack pushed himself to his feet, brushing off the damp grass from his clothes.
His head still buzzed with fragments of Edward's life, but his own thoughts were beginning to take over.
He wasn't Edward Greenwood, not really.
He was Jack Carter, a muggle with a second chance.
A gift, if you could call it that.
He held up the wand again, examining it closely. "Alright, birch wood, unicorn hair," he muttered, recalling the details.
Edward's memories told him that this wand wasn't particularly powerful, but it was reliable, good for charms and light magic.
Not that Edward had been much good with it.
"Well, let's see if I can do better," Jack said, pointing the wand at a nearby rock.
He tried to focus, to summon the feeling he imagined magic would require. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said firmly.
The wand sparked faintly, and the rock twitched but didn't lift.
"Brilliant," Jack muttered, lowering the wand.
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to figure out what he was missing.
ROB's words came back to him: You'll understand magic more deeply than anyone else.
"Yeah, right," Jack muttered. "Doesn't feel like it."
Still, something stirred deep in his mind, a faint glimmer of understanding.
Magic wasn't just words and gestures it was intent.
Willpower.
Edward hadn't lacked the words or the gestures; he'd lacked belief in himself.
Jack, on the other hand, had spent years dreaming of this moment.
He raised the wand again. "Alright. One more time."
He focused on the rock, picturing it lifting into the air. "Wingardium Leviosa."
This time, the rock jerked into the air and hovered awkwardly before clattering back to the ground.
Jack let out a breath, a grin creeping onto his face. "Alright, not bad. Not great, but not bad.
The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, and Jack realised he needed to figure out where he was going.
The village in the distance looked promising, but Edward's memories warned him to be cautious.
The wizarding world was small, and muggle-borns like Edward weren't exactly welcomed with open arms.
Jack couldn't risk drawing attention to himself, not until he figured out how to use this new life to his advantage.
As he walked, he thought about the state of the magical world.
Edward's memories painted a sad picture discrimination was rampant, and the divide between pure-bloods and muggle-borns ran deep.
The Ministry turned a blind eye to most of it, focusing instead on maintaining their power.
Jack clenched his fist around the wand. Edward had been a victim of that system, but Jack wasn't planning to play by their rules.
ROB had given him a gift, and he intended to use it.
He didn't care about the so-called traditions of the wizarding world.
If the system was broken, he'd rebuild it.
And if anyone tried to stop him?
"Well," Jack said to himself, his voice cold, "they can bugger off."
The village was quiet as Jack approached, the cobblestone streets slick with rain.
It was the kind of place that looked almost picturesque, with its quaint cottages and warm, glowing windows.
But Jack wasn't here to admire the scenery. He needed food, shelter, and information.
Edward's memories guided him to a small inn tucked away on a side street.
The sign above the door read The Crooked Broomstick, and the faint smell of stew wafted through the air.
Jack hesitated for a moment before stepping inside.
The inn was cosy but dimly lit, with a handful of patrons scattered at the tables.
A woman behind the bar glanced up as Jack entered, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Evening," she said, her tone neutral.
"Evening," Jack replied, keeping his voice steady. "Room for one?"
She studied him for a moment before nodding. "Two sickles a night. Dinner's extra."
Jack reached into Edward's pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.
The weight of the galleons, sickles, and knuts felt strange in his hand, but he handed over two sickles without hesitation.
The woman took the coins and handed him a key. "Room's upstairs, third on the left. Mind yourself. We don't tolerate trouble."
"Noted," Jack said, pocketing the key.
As he climbed the narrow stairs to his room,
He wasn't Edward Greenwood anymore, and he wasn't the Jack Carter who'd spent years reading about magic from the safety of his flat.
He was something else now someone with a chance to reshape the world he'd admired and hated in equal measure.
He opened the door to his room and stepped inside.
It was small and sparse, but it was warm and dry.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the wand from his pocket again.
"I'm not Edward," he muttered, staring at the wand. "And I'm not playing by their rules."
For the first time in his life or perhaps in two lives Jack felt something new: determination.
If the wizarding world wanted to crush people like Edward, then Jack would make sure it paid the price.
"No more victims," he said quietly. "No more bloody martyrs. This world's mine now."
And with that, Jack Carter closed his eyes.