Vilgefortz from Little Whinging

My memories came back in fragments, and in those moments, my magic had a habit of acting up. This caused me more trouble than benefit in the beginning, especially with my new relatives. It turned out that in this strange world, where technological progress had long replaced magic as science, practitioners of sorcery still existed, forming a separate society hidden from the eyes of Muggles—non-magic people.

The memories returned fully, forming a complete picture of the past and present, when I turned six again. A rather contradictory picture, I must say. Just imagine: one morning, you wake up, and you have two lines of memories in your head. One belongs to a six-year-old boy named Harry Potter, and the other to a powerful sorcerer from another world, killed in battle due to his pride, foolishness, and delusions of grandeur. He wanted to prove to himself that he had no equals in magic or swordsmanship, forgetting the main truth—that war is based on deception.

But first things first. The process of restoring memories took a full six years. The memories came back to me in dreams most often, though sometimes I would start seeing scenes of war, conversations in an unknown language, different people. I would drift out of reality for several minutes or hours. Sometimes I would just fall asleep in the middle of the day.

Four years ago, the merging of minds was finally complete, and one morning, someone new awoke—not just the six-year-old boy Harry Potter, but also not exactly Vilgefortz of Roggeveen. Something in between an experienced sorcerer and a boy who knew nothing of the world. The physical factor also couldn't be ignored.

Harry Potter, recalling every detail from his past life, was horrified, unable and unwilling to understand the atrocities Vilgefortz committed, first for survival and later to achieve absolute power. But the process irreversibly moved to its logical conclusion—my emergence.

I acknowledge the atrocities I committed; they are unjustifiable, and I will bear this burden for the rest of my days on Earth, but I will accept my new name and start with a clean slate. I will not reject the knowledge and power from the past world, but I will abandon my former methods, renouncing the inflated pride that once served me poorly. I will not repeat my mistakes, especially when this new life has given me such a precious gift.

Though I understood that the two personalities were essentially one, self-identity was sometimes problematic. Moreover, I never managed to figure out how this reincarnation, soul migration, or merging became possible. At six, you can't really perform magic, as a child's body imposes limitations… especially when you are a Source.

The revelation about the nature of my new powers greatly amused me. Just think—decades of experiments to gain power, hundreds of people killed and tortured, all in vain and a complete collapse at the very end. But die once, and you're at the peak of power. How can one not believe in destiny after that? Of course, it's not the power of Lara Dorren's genes, but it will suffice for a start.

I began my training immediately after "enlightenment." Remembering my skills, I applied all my available strength to swiftly regain my former power, with the Source's strength actively aiding me. Progress at this stage was modest, as a child's body and my living circumstances imposed their limits.

As for circumstances, an incident happened when I turned six. A broadened perspective no longer allowed me to view the world from the same angle as before. Things like cars, airplanes, and other technologies only sparked mild curiosity in the part of my soul inherited from Vilgefortz. But the relatives' attitude evoked a full range of emotions. On one hand, Vernon and Petunia Dursley were terrible relatives, forcing their nephew to live in a cupboard, taking out all of Dudley's sins on him. On the other hand, everything is relative. Compared to Neverland, the social relations within this family unit could be called golden. There, it was not uncommon for uncles and aunts to throw orphaned nephews and nieces out to seize the inheritance. I should thank them for not doing that—or rather, for not being able to do it.

After realizing who I was, a lot of work lay ahead. The first couple of weeks were spent trying to regain my powers and use them for a purpose—to secure better living conditions with my relatives, which I successfully achieved. I refrained from using complex spells, but I remembered simple witcher signs, which my colleagues looked down upon.

One evening, I took my relatives to the backyard and first showed them Axii, enchanting Dudley, my cousin, to oink like a pig, and then cast Igni with both hands.

"First, I want a normal room. Second, you'll stop bothering me over trivial things. Third, if you touch me again, I'll enchant you and make you kill each other, then burn down your house, and no one will ever know what happened to you. Is that clear?"

From that day, we reached an understanding—they ignored me, and I ignored them. Occasionally, I would help with chores or Dudley's homework; after all, these people took on the responsibility of caring for me. In the eyes of society, they are a respectable family. Let everyone continue to think so.

I once again felt grateful that I had never shied away from knowledge. Alzur and his mentor Cosimo Malaspina did a tremendous job creating a system of simple magic based on signs and minuscule traces of magic inherent in all living beings. Signs can be used by anyone, even children, especially with my current power.

Yes, the power of the Source is something extraordinary. Vilgefortz could only suspect, drawing knowledge from the tomes and manuscripts of the first Source sorcerers trained by the Aen Seidhe. He once discussed this with Hen Gedymdeith. The oldest wizard in Neverland, like all his generation, was a Source. In his youth, wizards specifically sought Sources, taking them to Loc Muinne, for only the elves knew the secret methods to train such sorcerers. However Hen tried to explain to Vilgefortz what it was like to be a Source, all their conversations came down to "to understand it, you have to be a Source yourself." The old addict—having such power and dying of a heart attack… I can understand a lot, but not the stupidity of wizards.

A Source is a perpetual engine. Even if I am exaggerating now, it is not by much. If a regular sorcerer draws power from the world's elemental veins, a Source hardly needs that. A regular wizard can undergo special initiation rituals to increase control over a specific element, but Sources do not need that. Why bind yourself to local power if you are a medium, a transmitter connected to the infinity of universes, from which an unlimited ocean of power can be drawn? For such beings, the question of power only depends on physiological limitations, which Vilgefortz intended to solve. All that was missing was Lara's gene for precise research. Well, no reason to waste research, even if it was conducted at the cost of innocent lives.

For four years, day in and day out, interrupted only by school, I spent in training, exploring new facets of my magical gift and in physical conditioning. It will be a long time before my former abilities are within reach, but I prepared the groundwork as best I could. "A sound mind in a sound body" perfectly describes the path to success in sorcery. Every result requires constant experimentation, unceasing effort, and magical effort is no exception. But how can one achieve success if, after two or three spells, a wizard is physically exhausted?

Many of my colleagues neglected physical training, and it backfired completely at Sodden. The mages of the North and South were more likely to die from physical exhaustion. In any case, physical frailty was the primary cause of their defeat. Many think that it's enough to shield themselves with a magical barrier, and everything will be fine—they don't need to jump around the battlefield. They were the first to die from my spells. The truth is this: hesitate for a second, and you're dead. Barriers and protective amulets don't guarantee survival; at best, they give you two or three seconds to assess the situation.

So, every day, I pushed myself with physical training, and in the evening, when everyone was asleep, I practiced with a staff, my weapon of choice. Though this world runs on different, deadlier weaponry, it's not the weapon that matters, but the one wielding it.

I had to speak with my uncle, and he managed to get a six-foot metal staff. Of course, it was no match for my previous staff, if only because the previous one was magically enchanted, with several properties like partial absorption and dispersion of spells. Complex enchantments are beyond my reach for now. So, it's best to move toward the goal gradually, taking all the errors of my first life into account. In essence, I'm walking a path I already paved, only in a more humane world.

Two aspects of my magical talent deserve special mention—mind reading and goetia, the art of summoning demons. If the first one is straightforward enough (I read my aunt's mind and learned about my parents and the magical society), you're probably wondering, "Why would a child summon demons?" Fair question.

Actually, goetia isn't considered a proper discipline by mages. This division is based on prejudice, cowardice, and another important factor: goetia doesn't require magic per se. Anyone, even a complete novice, can summon a demon if they perform the summoning ritual flawlessly. Due to goetia's accessibility, it was banned—not because of the risks, although they're considerable. Becoming a goetist isn't hard; surviving is much harder. Summoning a demon is just the first step—you need to gain something from it, ideally while paying as little as possible, or better yet, nothing at all.

The ban wasn't imposed without reason, though every mage in their life, sooner or later, dabbled in goetia. Beings from other planes remain a mystery to humans, as do methods of controlling them. Vilgefortz knew a few things about summoning and controlling demons. He was well-versed in the art of drafting contracts—it was no different from making deals with merchants. Perhaps, demons were even a little less greedy.

In my time, there were rumors that Vilgefortz was involved with demons, that that's where his immense power came from. Nonsense—I never made deals for power, but I did capture a few demons for the sake of science. These creatures were more like demonic animals, at least as far as I could tell; chaos hadn't endowed them with intelligence. During experiments with them, I managed to replicate their natural vampiric abilities, creating a unique spell based on them. I never expected that it would become useful so soon, in this world. The spell wasn't a combat one, more for research purposes.

However, the situation I found myself in practically invited, no, demanded its immediate use, despite my young age. It all had to do with the lightning-shaped scar on my forehead, which contained a foreign piece of something—or someone. Perhaps a magical parasite. I had to deal with it by its own methods.

First, I set up a room for the ritual. Back in the day, this would have been no trouble—just a wave of my hand, a short incantation, and the parasite would have been destroyed. Now, my limited abilities required thorough preparation. In the morning, feeling refreshed after my evening training, I immediately got to work preparing a ritual pentagram. I had drawn it two years earlier, so all that was left was to place candles at the edges. Getting good candles wasn't difficult nowadays. The nearest church would gladly provide them for a small fee—if only they knew what they were for… But I digress. Given the parasite's location, it would be easier to deal with it in the inner world.

Sitting at the center of the pentagram, I used the Igni sign to light the candles, fully focusing on the scar. Within a few minutes, by my perception, I found myself in my inner world, in the castle of Stygga. I was in the very hall where Geralt had decapitated Vilgefortz; however, neither the infamous witcher nor anyone else was present here except for me and the parasite.

Here, I appeared in a form that was a hybrid between Harry Potter and Vilgefortz. My inner appearance adapted to match my current physical form, though I hadn't yet fully adjusted to it, even after four years. Time would do its work; in four or five years, everything would normalize.

Approaching the parasite, I immediately cast the vampiric spell upon it. The creature wanted to feed on my power, so let it feel a similar effect itself. Without false modesty, I can say Vilgefortz had extensive knowledge in magic, even if not everything was backed by solid practice. Some disciplines Vilgefortz practiced more in theory than in practice, like forbidden necromancy, but even these limited insights were enough to understand the parasite's nature.

I could swear that the writhing, bleeding abomination on the floor was part of a whole—a fragment of a human soul, hostile to me. In other words, no mercy. Under the force of the source's power, the soul fragment disintegrated into its components; all were annihilated, except for the knowledge, which was assimilated. My mind filled with images and information that required sorting, but one memory struck like a bolt of lightning. It was a memory directly related to me and my family: the night my parents were killed, my mother standing to shield her child. In my previous life, my mother had abandoned me in a ditch at birth; here, my parents gave their lives for me. Ha! I need a distraction, for heaven's sake.

When I opened my eyes, I hadn't even taken a step before I heard a tap on the window. A small owl was perched on the ledge, with a letter in its beak. An odd sight, but judging by my aunt's stories, this owl was here to deliver an invitation to the wizarding boarding school, Hogwarts.

I opened the window, took the envelope from the owl's beak, and, breaking the seal, read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY 

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore 

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards) 

Dear Mr. Potter, 

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 September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely, 

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress!

"And where's the ticket?"