Chapter 1 Prologue
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John Smith was what you'd call a magic nerd. At 18, he spent more time practicing card tricks and reading about wizards than doing normal stuff like dating or getting a real part time job. His tiny apartment was a mess of magic books, comics, and enough Harry Potter merch to fill a Hogwarts dorm room.
But John's true hero? Doctor Strange. Not the movie guy, but the comic book sorcerer who could bend reality like a pretzel. "One day," John often told his cat, Mr. Whiskers, "I'll be just like him. Saving the world with a flick of my wrist!"
Mr. Whiskers, a chonky ginger feline, usually responded by yawning and going back to sleep. Clearly, he wasn't big on the whole magic thing.
One Saturday night, while his friends were probably out having fun, John was setting up for his biggest trick yet. He'd found this weird old book in Chinatown, bought from a guy who looked like Dumbledore's long-lost twin.
"This not toy," the old man had warned, his English as broken as John's love life. "Great power, great responsibility."
John had just nodded, thinking, 'Dude, you sound like a fortune cookie crossed with Spider-Man's uncle.' But he bought the book anyway. Inside was a ritual that promised to let him peek into other dimensions. Totally Doctor Strange style!
Now, three months and a lot of weird eBay purchases later (who knew dragon scales were a thing?), John was ready. His floor was covered in symbols drawn with a mix of chalk, salt, and a drop of his own blood. "Don't look at me like that," he told Mr. Whiskers, who was giving him the stink-eye. "It's just a pinprick. For science! Well, magical science."
In the middle of his arcane art project floated a shiny crystal. "The Gem of Dimensional Doorways," John announced proudly. "One spell, and we're dimension-hopping! Maybe we'll see Asgard, or Narnia, or—" he chuckled, "—Hogwarts!"
John took a deep breath and started chanting in Latin. Thank god for those boring high school classes! The symbols lit up like a bizarre disco floor, first blue, then purple. Even Mr. Whiskers perked up, his kitty eyes wide.
"Per potentiam mysteriorum, aperi mihi vias ad regna ignota!" John shouted. The crystal pulsed, and suddenly, boom! A swirling vortex of color that'd give a rainbow an identity crisis.
"Holy Agamotto, it worked!" John cried, his face glowing like a mage-powered lightbulb. "Mr. Whiskers, we're gonna see another dimen—"
But John's victory speech got cut short because Mr. Whiskers, being a cat and therefore a tiny agent of chaos, decided to play "jump into the freaky magic swirl."
"No, you furry little Loki!" John yelped, diving after him. His fingers brushed Mr. Whiskers' tail, but whoosh! Both nerd and cat tumbled into the vortex.
"I'm coming, buddy!" John yelled, his voice echoing weirdly as he felt like he was being stretch-Armstronged through a kaleidoscope.
Back in the apartment, the vortex went *poof*, leaving behind a room that looked like Gandalf's garage sale. On the desk, the crystal split in two. Guess dimensional travel is hard on the magical hardware.
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John woke up thinking, 'I've got a feeling we're not in my crappy apartment anymore, Mr. Whiskers.' Then, 'Wait, why do I sound like I just sucked a helium balloon?'
He blinked. Instead of his messy room, he was in a cozy bedroom with actual curtains. Nice ones, not the bedsheet he'd tacked up over his window. But the real shock? His hands. They were small, smooth. Like, kid-sized.
"What in the name of Doctor Strange'?" he squeaked, then clapped his hands over his mouth. Yep, definitely helium voice. He scrambled out of bed, nearly face-planting because apparently, his feet didn't reach the floor anymore.
He staggered to a mirror and got the shock of his life. Gone was his attempt at a wizard beard. Gone were his glasses that he'd hoped made him look like a sexy librarian. Instead, there was a kid. A freaking adorable kid with black hair, blue eyes, and a face that belonged in a boy band.
"I'm... I'm freaking cute," John said, his voice squeaky with disbelief. "I look like the before picture in a puberty commercial. What happened to me? And where's Mr. Whiskers?"
On cue, a familiar "meow" came from the bed. John spun around to see his cat, looking exactly the same. "Oh, come on!" John grumbled. "You get to keep your majestic fluffiness, but I turn into a Noxzema ad?"
Mr. Whiskers just purred and rubbed against John's legs. Cats, man. Zero sympathy.
John looked around the room. It was nice. Like, "my parents have actual money" nice. Bookshelf, desk with quills (actual quills, not ballpoints!), and a big trunk marked "J.B."
"J.B.?" John mused. "John...Boyband? John Bieber? John...Blackwood?" At "Blackwood," something clicked in his brain, like remembering lyrics to a song you haven't heard in years.
He rummaged through the desk and found a letter that made him question his entire existence. It was written in green ink on fancy paper, and it said:
```
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Blackwood,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
```
John read it three times, then burst out laughing. It was a high, slightly hysterical sound that sent Mr. Whiskers diving for cover. "This is a prank, right?" he said to no one. "I'm dreaming. Or in a coma. Or that vortex scrambled my brains like a cosmic omelet."
He pinched himself. Hard. "Ow! Okay, not dreaming." He looked around. "So either this is the most epic prank ever, or..." He trailed off, his big brain putting the pieces together.
"Holy Hogwarts," he whispered, "I'm in Harry Potter. I'm a wizard. A real, double-double-toil-and-trouble wizard!"
He flopped onto the bed, his new kid-body shaking. Mr. Whiskers, clearly the braver of the two, hopped into his lap and purred like a motor. John pet him, his mind racing at warp speed.
"How'd this happen?" he mumbled. "The spell was supposed to let me see other dimensions, not cannonball me into one! And why Potter-verse? I mean, it's cool, but also scary. Dark lords, Death Eaters, sassy house-elves... What if I mess up the story? What if—"
His panic-spiral got cut off by a knock. The door opened, and in came a nice-looking lady with curly hair. "Jonathan, sweetie, you up? Your dad's making pancakes, and you know how he gets if they go cold."
John gaped at her like she was a talking textbook. She smiled softly. "First day jitters, huh? It's okay, love. Hogwarts is a big deal. But you'll rock it, I just know it."
She hugged him, and whoa, she smelled like flowers and... home. John, hit by a feels-tsunami, hugged her back hard. If this was real, if he was Jonathan Blackwood now, then this was his mom. Cue the waterworks.
"Oh, my little wise man," she murmured, stroking his hair. John sniffled. She'd called him wise. In his old life, people usually just called him a nerd. "It's alright. Your dad and I are so proud. And look, even Mr. Whiskers is on Team Jonathan!" She petted the cat, who purred like he'd just won the lottery.
John - no, Jonathan now - pulled back, wiping his eyes. "Thanks, Mum," he said. 'Mum.' Weird word, but it felt right. "I'm just... it's a lot."
"I know, darling," she said. "But you're smart, and brave, and you've got this. Now, come on. Your dad's making his 'Blackwood's Soon-to-Be-Hogwarts-Famous' pancakes."
Jonathan followed her downstairs, Mr. Whiskers trotting along like a fuzzy, four-legged hype man. The house was awesome - moving photos (he nearly tripped when photo-him waved), and the smell of pancakes that made his old ramen-heavy diet cry in shame.
In the kitchen, a tall dude with cool salt-and-pepper hair was magically flipping pancakes. "There's my Hogwarts-bound genius!" he boomed. "Ready to start your legend, son?"
Jonathan nodded, still a bit dizzy from all the weird. His dad didn't notice, just plopped down a stack of broomstick-shaped pancakes. "Fuel up! The Hogwarts Express is like time - it stops for no wizard."
As Jonathan ate (holy Merlin, these were good), his brain was doing mental gymnastics. Hogwarts, Harry Potter, magic - it was real. But what about his Doctor Strange mojo? He focused, trying to feel that mystical buzz.
It was there, but faint. Like trying to hear your favorite song through your neighbor's wall. 'Great,' he thought. 'I'm in magic-land, and my powers are playing hide-and-seek.'
After breakfast, it was chaos. The good kind. His mom shrunk his trunk (he watched, bug-eyed, as it went matchbox-sized), and his dad tried to tame his hair. "You look like you've been wrestling a Niffler," he laughed.
Then they were off in a car that moved smoother than his old social life. His parents chatted about their Hogwarts days. Mom was a Ravenclaw prefect ("Smartest witch ever," Dad said proudly), and Dad was Gryffindor's Quidditch captain.
"Quidditch," Jonathan breathed. Flying on broomsticks? That sounded even cooler than his old dreams of dimension-hopping. 'Maybe getting stuck here isn't so bad,' he thought, grinning.
King's Cross was nuts. Muggles everywhere, plus the odd wizard family (spotted by their owls and weird fashion choices). Jonathan's heart did the cha-cha as they neared the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. This was it.
"Ready, genius?" his dad asked, gripping the trolley with Jonathan's trunk and Mr. Whiskers' carrier.
Jonathan nodded, his pulse a dubstep track. Then, holding the trolley with his dad, he ran at the wall. For a sec, he panicked - 'What if it's just a wall?' - then whoosh! They were through, on a platform full of steam and excited kid-chatter.
The Hogwarts Express was there, scarlet and steamy and more epic than any movie. Jonathan gaped. "It's real," he whispered. "Hogwarts is real. I'm not just high on potion fumes."
His mom knelt by him, her eyes shiny. "You're gonna have a blast, my little brainiac. Make friends, learn spells, and write us. Your dad will want every Quidditch detail."
"And if anyone gives you guff," his dad added, ruffling his hair, "remember: you're a Blackwood. We face challenges head-on, wands high!"
Jonathan hugged them both, surprised by how much he meant it. These weren't his real parents, but... they kind of were. "I'll make you proud," he promised.
"You already have, love," his mom said, kissing his forehead.
After more hugs and "write soon!"s, Jonathan boarded the train. Mr. Whiskers' carrier in one hand, wand (10 inches, ash and phoenix feather, springy) in the other. He found an empty compartment and plopped down, his heart doing the tango.
As the train moved, he watched his parents shrink away, waving till they vanished. He turned to Mr. Whiskers. "Well, furball," he said, "our little dimension dive just got way more interesting."
He leaned back, watching England roll by. In one world, he was John Smith, a magic nerd with more books than friends. But here? He was Jonathan Blackwood, boy wizard extraordinaire. And somewhere inside, he felt the some power, napping but definitely there.
"I am in train to Hogwarts ," he realized, giddy laughter bubbling up. "And soon, I'll be sorted. This is insane. Insanely awesome!"
Mr. Whiskers meowed in what Jonathan took as "Duh, genius." As the train zoomed to Hogwarts, Jonathan grinned ear to ear. He had magic to learn, friends to make, and a wild destiny to grab by the wand. And really, what could be more magical than that?
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Hello, everyone! I hope you're enjoying the story. Don't worry about the protagonist—he will become more mature in the upcoming chapters. In the beginning, I wanted to convey his excitement, so I hope you understand. Thank you for your support!