Harry Potter and My Wizarding Life

I woke up to the sound of rain tapping against a window.

For a moment, I lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling above me, feeling the weight of an unfamiliar body pressing into a stiff mattress. My mind lagged, sluggishly trying to piece together the fragmented memories of what had just happened. Order. Chaos. The wishes. The deal.

And now… this.

I exhaled sharply and sat up. Immediately, something felt off. My limbs were shorter, my fingers smaller. The blanket pooled around me, too large for my frame. A tiny spark of panic ignited in my chest, but I forced it down. Think, assess, adapt.

I reached up, pressing two small hands against my head, feeling the soft, short strands of hair. My breath came out in a controlled exhale. Alright. First things first—where the hell am I?

The room was dimly lit, the only source of light a thin strip of moonlight cutting through a rain-streaked window. The air smelled of old wood and damp fabric, mixed with the faint mustiness that came with poorly cleaned spaces. Rows of beds lined the room, most occupied by small, sleeping figures.

An orphanage.

That much was clear from the rickety furniture and the sheer number of children crammed into one space. But that wasn't what made my stomach twist—it was the realization that I had no parents here. No family. I was alone.

And yet, oddly enough, I didn't feel sad about it.

Because I expected this.

I had wished for a clean slate, a new beginning in the wizarding world. A Muggle-born. No attachments, no connections to my past life. And, well… it looked like I had gotten exactly what I asked for.

Still, before anything else, I needed information.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and focused.

And just like that, my mind obeyed.

Memories unraveled like neatly stacked books being pulled from a shelf, cataloged with precision beyond human capability. I sorted through them with ease, flicking through days, weeks, years that were not my own—except they were mine now.

Hashim Rashid Bhatti.

That was my name. Still my name. A strange mix of relief and satisfaction settled in my chest.

I was five years old. Born and raised (if you could call being shuffled between caretakers "raised") in an orphanage on the outskirts of London. The place wasn't cruel, but it wasn't particularly warm either. Just another government-run institution where kids waited to be adopted or aged out of the system.

Not that I was planning on waiting.

I delved deeper, sifting through details of my life—childhood squabbles, meals of overcooked vegetables and bland porridge, whispered conversations in the dead of night between children dreaming of new families.

And then, as if testing my own subconscious, I reached for something else.

Occlumency.

The moment I thought of it, it was there—a vast, impenetrable fortress built within my mind, as natural as breathing. The sheer control I had over my own thoughts was staggering. I could compartmentalize, sort, erase at will. I had mental defenses most Legilimens could only dream of penetrating.

A slow grin spread across my lips. This is perfect.

I opened my eyes, heart hammering with excitement. Everything was going exactly as planned.

With newfound confidence, I slid off the bed, careful not to wake the other children. My bare feet barely made a sound against the cold wooden floor as I made my way toward the small, dust-coated mirror leaning against the far wall.

The moment I saw my reflection, I stopped short.

Holy. Hell.

I was gorgeous.

Dark, tousled hair framed a delicate yet sharp-featured face. My skin was smooth, unmarred, and fair with just the right amount of warmth. But what really sealed the deal were my rectangular glasses—perfectly perched, enhancing rather than hiding my features.

I turned my head slightly, examining myself from different angles.

Oh, this is actually unfair.

Chaos had really outdone themselves. I didn't just look good; I looked like someone born to stand out. Even at five years old, I had the kind of effortless charm that would probably turn heads in a few years.

I smirked.

"Yeah," I whispered to myself. "I can work with this."

But now that my identity was confirmed and my powers were intact, the real game began.

Because if I was in this world, then somewhere out there, Hogwarts existed. The wizarding world existed.

And I was going to make damn sure I was ready for it.