The laughter echoed like knives.
Tony stood in the narrow alley behind the school gym—the bully spot, they called it. A cracked wall at his back, a crowd of grinning faces in front of him. They weren't hitting him today. That almost would've been better. Instead, they were doing what they always did—mocking him.
"Hey, wizard boy! Cast a spell and disappear already!" "Maybe his imaginary girlfriend from that manga will save him!" "Oi Tony, what's it like living in your fairyland while the rest of us live in reality?"
He didn't respond. He never did. He just stood there, head low, fists clenched tight enough that his nails bit into his palms. The cold wind stung his face, but it wasn't as sharp as the words.
They left eventually—laughing, joking, high-fiving each other like heroes walking away from a battle. Tony slid down the wall and sat on the damp ground, his backpack half-open and books spilled like wounded soldiers.
This was just another day.
He wasn't popular.
He wasn't athletic.
He wasn't smart enough to be praised, nor rebellious enough to be feared.
He was nothing.
Tony Sullivan—seventeen, invisible, and utterly unremarkable.
The only thing he lived for was fantasy. Magic. Stories. Escapes.
When he read, he became someone else—someone powerful. Someone brave. Someone who mattered.
He imagined casting spells with a flick of the wrist, flying through skies on dragons, or walking down the halls of a grand academy where his talents were admired, not mocked. He dreamed of love stories where someone looked at him and saw something worth loving. Not the awkward, quiet boy with messy hair and second-hand shoes.
But reality was cruel.
Books closed.
Dreams faded.
And he always woke up here—alone.
At home, it was no different.
His father barely looked at him anymore. When he did, it was with disappointment etched across his face like stone.
"You're seventeen, Tony. When are you going to grow up and act like a man?"
The warmth in their home had died years ago—along with the only person who ever truly understood him.
His mother.
She passed away when Tony was ten. A sudden illness. One day she was there, tucking him in with a smile, and the next, she was just… gone.
But she was everything to him.
She used to sit beside him at night, books in hand, her voice weaving tales of knights and sorcerers, enchanted forests and brave-hearted boys. She never laughed at his dreams. She nurtured them.
"One day, my little wizard," she'd whisper, brushing his hair back gently, "you'll find a world where you belong."
He clung to those words like a lifeline. Even years later.
After she died, everything changed. His father turned cold—grief calcified into frustration. The house that once smelled of baked cookies and old books now echoed with silence and regret.
Tony stopped talking about magic. But he never stopped wanting it.
That evening, the sky was gray and heavy with rain. Tony walked home in silence, the streets slick and empty, the weight of the day pressing against his shoulders.
His backpack felt heavier than ever.
His heart, even more so.
He crossed the road without really looking. His mind was somewhere else—anywhere else. In a magic duel. In a forest of elves. In a school where he wasn't mocked but chosen.
That's when the headlights hit him.
A flash.
A screech.
A roar of metal and bone and pain.
Time slowed.
He didn't even scream. He just thought:
So this is it, huh? This pathetic, worthless life… This is how it ends.
Maybe this is mercy.
And then—
A face.
Soft and familiar.
Warm eyes. Gentle smile. Brown hair tucked behind one ear as she reached toward him.
His mother.
"You'll find a world where you belong…"
A smile touched his lips, faint and fleeting—but real.
Then, everything went white.
White. Endless white.
Then color. Then sound. Then… wailing.
Tony opened his eyes slowly. Everything was blurry, far too bright. Shapes moved, voices echoed in strange lilting tones. He couldn't move much. He couldn't speak. And yet—he was alive.
Blurred shapes loomed above him—faces, now clearer. A tall man with regal golden hair and a soft, trembling smile. Beside him, a woman with flowing blue hair and eyes that shimmered like starlight, teary with joy. They were looking at him.
"Welcome to the world, William Whitmore," the man said softly. "Our little star…"
William? The name echoed in Tony's mind, foreign yet somehow... his?
The room around him was bright, adorned with ornate wallpaper and floating lights that pulsed like candle flames suspended in mid-air. He was lying in a plush cradle trimmed with silver and deep blue—elegant, pureblood elegance.
And yet, none of this made sense.
Before he could spiral deeper into confusion, a sharp pat on his back interrupted everything.
WHACK!
Pain.
A gasp—and then, like a switch was flipped—Tony, now William, let out a wail so loud the windows nearly shook.
"There we go," chuckled the nurse with a smirk. "Strong lungs on this one!"
His mother laughed—a musical, exhausted laugh—and pressed a gentle kiss on his tiny forehead. "He's got your stubborn lungs, Alaric."
"I'll take that as a compliment," his father replied, grinning.
The world dimmed a little then, exhaustion claiming him as he drifted into sleep, his last thought a storm of questions: Where am I? What is this? William? Why does that name feel so... final?
----
Time passed slowly for a baby.
At first, there was little he could do beyond sleeping, crying, and listening. But Tony—no, William—had a mind that wasn't new. And it was that mind that caught things.
Like the way the maids whispered nervously in corners, glancing over their shoulders.
"YOU KNOW WHO... Another family also disappeared yesterday... No one is safe.."
Or how his parents took turns watching over him. One of them was always home, always close. He once heard his father quietly say to a maid, "Even if Seraphina is out fighting, I will not leave this house unguarded. Not with William here."
The air in the mansion carried tension, like a violin string pulled too tight. Everyone lived in a low hum of fear. The name "You-Know-Who" was whispered with shivers, and every owl that arrived brought more dread.
The Whitmores, it seemed, were no ordinary family.
And then, after nearly a year of that strange, stressful rhythm—everything changed.
One evening, the household erupted in an emotion he hadn't yet seen: joy.
Cheers rang in the halls, laughter spilled through the walls. He saw tears on maids' faces—tears of relief. His mother came home early that night, lifting him in her arms, smiling so bright it rivaled the chandelier.
"He's gone," she whispered, rocking him. "The Dark Lord is gone."
His parents collapsed into each other's arms, exhausted and relieved.Later that night, hidden from view but always listening, William heard them
"That boy survived"
"Yeah.. Poor boy his parents died. But he survived only one survived after killing curse"
"But how.. how can someone.. a kid survive"
"I don't know... Not even Dumbledore is sure"
The boy who lived... Dumbledore.. I am in the wizarding world.. In the world of harry potter...
And he just survive... His parents died... It means ...it means..I am same age as harry and I will attend Hogwarts with him
The type of world I always dream about.. I got the second chance to live....