The laughter and bustle of the children filled the air as Eamon, still overwhelmed by the recent revelation, hurriedly walked to his favorite corner in the orphanage.

Upon arriving, he slumped against the wall, his eyes scanning the room as if expecting to see some sign that would disprove his recent discovery. 'Knight Bus? That can only be from stories!' The disbelief in his mind echoed loudly, almost like a scream.

''The Knight Bus...'' he whispered to himself, letting the words hang in the air, hoping that somehow, they would bring clarity. He could feel the echo of Stan Shunpike's voice in his memories, introducing the magical vehicle to Harry. He had never imagined that one day he would see it too. The idea of being in a world where magic was real overwhelmed him with a mix of fear and wonder.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the whirlwind of emotions assaulting him. ''I'm in the Harry Potter world,'' he reflected, allowing the reality of that thought to settle in his mind.

But how was it possible? In his previous life, the world of Harry Potter was nothing more than a series of books and movies, a work of fiction that he loved but always considered a mere escape from reality. The lines between fact and fiction seemed to have blurred, leaving him in a state of confusion.

'Maybe this is all a dream' he considered for a moment. But as he observed his surroundings and felt the cold stone wall against his back, everything seemed too real. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of the implications. If this world was real, so were its dangers. Voldemort, the Death Eaters, the Dementors... everything was possible here. Eamon wasn't sure if he was prepared to face such challenges.

Burdened by these concerns, one idea comforted him. If he was in the magical world, he also had access to its power and solutions. There was hope for him, perhaps even a chance to find the peace he so longed for. He clung to that thought, allowing hope to fill him with determination.

With the idea of magic being possible, an answer to the mystery that obsessed him began to form. The memory of that incident in the bathroom flashed vividly in Eamon's mind. Every drop suspended in the air, every object defying gravity, all of it indelibly etched in his memory. 'That force manifested in moments of intense emotional imbalance is accidental magic. There's no doubt, he declared vehemently in his mind.

Eamon, with his analytical mind, began to construct theories. Accidental magic was not a mere whim; it was a release of magical energy that could not be contained. 'Children in this world show flashes of magic when they can't handle their emotions. That's what must have happened to me. But what intrigues me more is that if I can release that energy unconsciously, what else am I capable of doing consciously?'

It wasn't just a matter of control. It was a matter of understanding. In the world of Harry Potter, magic was intrinsically linked to emotion. Fear, joy, sadness: all could act as catalysts. ''I must understand my emotions and the magic they are tied to. Only then I can begin to exert some control over them.''

However, the mere fact of being immersed in a magical world, with all its promises and mysteries, did not automatically erase the shadows of his past. The complexities of this reality added an additional layer to his already complicated psyche. While magic had the potential to offer solutions, it could also be a double-edged sword, and Eamon knew it well.

Wizards, with all their wisdom and power, must have their own systems and methods to address internal dilemmas, the demons that could lurk in the depths of a tortured mind. Eamon recalled the times he had sought help in his previous life. The countless hours in therapy, the endless pills that promised stability. And although he had had his moments of relief, distrust of these methods had kept him on guard, always questioning.

As he reflected, a flash of recognition crossed Eamon's mind. Suddenly, a familiar term, though not personally experienced, emerged from the depths of his memories: ''Occlumency. Could it be?'', Eamon thought excitedly. Images of Harry Potter struggling under Snape's stern tutelage, trying to keep the professor's advances at bay, presented themselves clearly to him. Despite the apparent brutality of those lessons, Eamon understood that the urgency of the situation had accelerated the process. Here, in this world, Occlumency was not only real but could be the key to unraveling and mastering the mysteries of his own mind.

In this unfamiliar and mysterious environment, Eamon felt that Occlumency could be the key to an inner sanctuary. Although he had known it through the stories of his past life, it now stood before him as a tangible reality. More than a simple defense against those trying to invade others' thoughts, Occlumency was an opportunity to reinforce mental barriers, delve into the depths of his own consciousness, and perhaps, find an anchor amid the storm of his reincarnation.

The understanding and control that Occlumency promised was a tempting balm for Eamon's still-fresh wounds. Although his knowledge of the technique was limited, he felt, deep within his being, that mastering it would be essential on his path to peace and self-acceptance.

He knew it wouldn't be easy. The challenges of Occlumency were legendary in the stories he remembered. It would be a struggle against himself, against the memories that threatened to overwhelm him and the turbulent emotions that stirred within him. ''Mastering my mind could be the key,'' he reflected internally. ''If I manage to understand and control the darkest recesses of my thoughts, perhaps I will find the peace and balance that this world promises. Moreover, I could decipher the mysteries surrounding my existence here and find the answers I so crave.'' With this new purpose in mind, Eamon felt a renewed drive, a determination that propelled him toward the future.

As the shadows of dusk took over the room, Eamon found himself delving into the questions that envelop his identity in this existence. In this magical world that seemed to have sprung from the pages of a book, he faced an unknown reality.

Beyond the cobblestone streets and enchanted worlds, he knew from the stories, there were more personal, more intimate details that were foreign to him. He knew he was an orphan, but why? What had happened to his parents in this world? Were they wizards or muggles? Had he inherited his magical ability from them? Did he have a surname that connected him to a known wizarding family? Or was he simply an abandoned child with no notable lineage?

These questions swirled in his mind, forming a whirlwind of uncertainty. Additionally, there was a more disturbing detail: he was not precisely sure of his age in this world. While he felt youth in his body, he was unclear whether he was five, six, or seven years old. And this was crucial, especially considering that in the magical world, age could determine the start of his formal education at Hogwarts or even the acquisition of his own wand.

''The orphanage must have records,'' he thought. Every child that passed through its doors was documented, every detail of their story, no matter how trivial, must be recorded somewhere. And if there was someone who had access to that information, it was Director Collins.

Eamon knew he needed those answers. But he also understood that he couldn't just ask to see his files. He had to be discreet, cunning. The idea of breaking into Director Collins' office began to take shape in his mind. But before acting, he would have to observe, learn, and meticulously plan his next move.

Eamon, deep in thought, began to consider the need to observe and be cautious in this world he was still discovering. From his corner, he realized the importance of understanding the orphanage's routine. Even more important was knowing Director Collins' habits. While during the day the institution was full of activity and noise, Eamon sensed that nights would be his best opportunity. The director, with her warm and protective nature, usually retired to her office after ensuring everyone was settled. But how long did she stay there? Did she make nightly rounds? He needed details if he wanted to proceed with his plan without being discovered.

Despite Director Collins' evident kindness, Eamon felt he had to be extremely cautious in her presence. It wasn't that he doubted the woman's inherent goodness, but there was something about her sharp perception and her ability to always be present that made him want to remain on guard. Eamon was convinced that if he showed too much of himself or got carried away by a comment or memory from his past life, the astute director might notice something anomalous in him. After all, although externally he was a child, inside he carried a full life of adult experiences. It was essential, then, to limit direct interaction with her, at least until he could better understand his situation and fit more naturally into this environment. Observing from the shadows and keeping a low profile would be his best allies.

''It's time to go back, they'll start looking for me if I'm not in my room,'' he thought as he stood up and dusted off his clothes. With short, hurried steps, Eamon began to walk down the hallways toward his room. As he walked through the corridors and saw the different rooms, Eamon's eyes unconsciously drifted towards the closed door of Director Collins' office. He knew that behind that threshold possibly lay answers to many of his questions. ''How could I get in there?'', he wondered, allowing that thought to consume him for a moment.

"'Locks...'", a voice whispered in his mind. In his previous life, a padlock was something that could be forced open with tools or with some skill. But this was the magical world, and his mind lit up with memories of doors that opened with a simple wand movement, of objects that moved with whispered words. However, he also knew that magic wasn't always that simple, especially for someone just beginning to understand it.

"'I don't have a wand,'" he thought with slight regret. But then, a whisper of hope infiltrated his mind, reminding him that there was magic that didn't need wands, that was based purely on emotion and will. He had experienced a bit of that accidental magic recently. But, would it be enough? Could he learn to control it? The idea of trying something without really knowing how to do it unsettled him, but at the same time, that might be his only option.

As he pondered these dilemmas, a memory shone in his mind: Tom Riddle, the young man who would later become Lord Voldemort, had been capable of astonishing things even before receiving a formal education at Hogwarts. Eamon had no intentions similar to Riddle's, but that example showed him that, with determination, perhaps he could learn to handle his own magic to achieve his goals.

He took a deep breath, allowing himself a moment of hope. "'First, I need to practice, learn, understand,'" he told himself. He couldn't just throw himself into action without preparation. The mere fact of being in a magical world didn't make him an expert in magic. But, with time, practice, and determination, perhaps he could figure out how to access that office without being detected. For now, all he could do was observe, learn, and plan his next move.

—oOo—

January 23, 1985

The soft light of dawn filtered through the window, bathing the room in a warm, golden hue. In the stillness of the room, Eamon was immersed in a deep state of concentration.

He stood in front of his worktable, where a series of small objects were arranged in meticulous order: a marble, a feather, and a coin. Each of these objects bore witness to his magical practices and efforts, representing a silent testimony to his evolution.

'Just a few more seconds,' Eamon thought, closing his eyes and extending his hand towards the marble. He felt a hum of energy vibrating in his fingers, a connection with the magic surrounding him. The marble began to float, wobbling slightly in the air. "Come on, just a little more," Eamon whispered with determination. However, after a brief moment, the marble fell back onto the table. 'Damn,' he thought but quickly recomposed his spirit. "Every day is a step forward," he reminded himself softly.

But the doors... those were an entirely different challenge. He vividly remembered the last time he tried to open the library door using his magic. His intention was simple: unlock the door and allow it to open gently. But magic, in its fickle nature, interpreted his wish in a way he could never have imagined. Instead of opening, the door was pushed with such force that it trembled in its frame.

He recalled the moment in more detail: the rough texture of the doorknob under his hand, the tension in his muscles as he tried to visualize his desire. The emotion he felt when he realized he had connected with that magical force, that energy coursing through his veins. The brief moment of hope and anticipation.

However, that moment was fleeting. Instead of the soft click of the lock unlocking, a loud noise filled the silence. The door, subjected to a supernatural push, vibrated violently, echoing throughout the corridor.

As Eamon continued to relive that moment, his fingers unconsciously drummed against his side. "Perhaps I projected too much desire, too much need in that attempt," he thought, trying to find the root of the erratic behavior of magic.

"Magic is not like science; it doesn't follow a logic that can be easily deciphered," he whispered to himself. It was a reminder that, although he had made progress, magic still held a part of the mystery. "It interprets emotions, desires, maybe even fears. I need to understand not just how it works, but how it feels."

And his failed attempts weren't just on that occasion. The times when no effect occurred were all too common... he preferred those times to the stress of dealing with the noticeable effects of his other tests. He remembered one of his first attempts to open a door using magic. Instead of gently unlocking it, the door simply disappeared, leading him to hours of stress trying to reverse the effect. The memory of Patricia's face seeing him standing, frowning, at an empty door frame still made him smile.

Eamon let out a frustrated sigh recalling that day. "Magic is... complicated," he pondered. Sometimes he felt that, rather than him controlling the magic, it was magic playing with him. "It's like trying to hold water with your hands," he murmured. "No matter how hard you try, it always finds a way to slip away or act on its own."

Despite the ups and downs of his magical practice, Eamon had been equally meticulous in his observation of the orphanage. Through small slits and hiding places, he had managed to map out the nightly routines. He knew that after 10 p.m., Mrs. Jenkins used to have tea in the kitchen. Mr. Thompson, on the other hand, often fell asleep in his chair in the main hall, a book in his lap. And Director Collins... well, she was a mystery in herself, but he had noticed that she usually retired from her office to her quarters around 11 p.m., but always diligently locked the door to her office.

These details, along with the blind spots he had discovered in the corridors and the less illuminated areas of the garden, gave him an edge. An edge he would need if he wanted to carry out his plan.

But no matter how well-informed he was about the routine of his caregivers, if he couldn't find a way to open the office door, his plans would be useless. 'That damned door seems impenetrable,' Eamon thought, his mind wandering back to his fruitless attempts to open the door with magic.

Reflecting on his attempts to control magic, Eamon remembered something peculiar he had started to notice: that familiar "buzz" in his mind seemed to resonate with a different tone just before the magic took effect. As he delved deeper into his thoughts, his lips sketched a slight movement, as if he was about to speak, but he limited himself to whispering in his mind.

"The 'buzz'... it's always been there, but now it seems to want to tell me something." He remembered how, before the library door was forcefully thrown open, he felt an intensification of the "buzz", almost like a sudden acceleration. It was a signal, a warning. If only he had learned to interpret it earlier...

He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment, trying to evoke that feeling. Recalling his past attempts with magic, Eamon realized that the "buzz" had changed in tone and rhythm each time. When he had managed to levitate an object, the sound had been harmonious, almost melodic. But when things didn't go as planned, the oscillations became erratic, almost like an alarm.

"It's a guide," he whispered, his heart beating with renewed hope. "If I learn to tune into it, to listen to it, I could foresee how magic will manifest. It's my connection to it."

Eamon was wrapped in the euphoria of realization. With the recent revelation that his inner buzz was a kind of magical compass, a spark of excitement drove him to put his new theory into practice. Walking briskly, almost running down the hallway, he found himself in front of the door to his favorite corner, that place in the orphanage where he used to practice and reflect in private.

Taking a moment to concentrate, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to tune into that particular "buzz". He could feel how his magical energy intertwined with the sound, giving him a sense of anticipation. With a clear intention and renewed focus, he waited to feel that distinctive change in the buzz's tone before attempting to act.

And then he felt it, a harmonious vibration, like a sweet melody telling him everything was aligned. It was as if he had tuned into the right frequency. Trusting this feeling, he projected his desire onto the door's lock. There was a pause, and then the distinctive sound of a 'click'. The door gently opened before him.

"Yay!" Eamon shouted, allowing pure, youthful happiness to flood his being. An achievement that seemed so small, but meant the world to him. For a moment, he forgot all the challenges, and the seriousness of his goal, and simply let himself be enveloped by the victory he had achieved. It was the triumph of the child who had discovered a new game, of the apprentice who had overcome an obstacle.

However, that feeling was fleeting, just a blink in the grand scheme of his emotions. Since discovering the power that lay within him, every day had been a cluster of experiences, some successful and others not so much. But now, after so many attempts, failures, and unexpected achievements, Eamon felt he was finally gaining mastery over his magic that once seemed unattainable.

There was something in the air, an electricity, an urgency that drove him forward. The orphanage's files, the documents that might contain the truth about his past, had become his obsession. He knew that tonight was the night. The right moment, after so many months of waiting and preparation.

With every tick-tock of the clock on the wall, his heart beat a little faster. Anxiety and anticipation intertwined in his chest, creating a whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overflow. He found himself overreacting to the most common sounds: the squeak of a chair, the murmur of a distant conversation, or even the soft tinkle of laughter. These sounds, which once went unnoticed, now resonated in his mind like alarm bells, constantly reminding him of his mission.

Games with the other children had also changed for him. While he immersed himself in a game of hide-and-seek or chased his friends in the courtyard, his mind never stopped working. He calculated escape routes, evaluated the shadows where he could hide, and became familiar with every corner of the orphanage. All while laughing and playing, maintaining the facade of an ordinary child.

Conversations were even more intense. He found himself analyzing every word, every gesture, searching for signs or hints that could be useful. Even when he talked to his closest friends, a part of him was always alert, listening for any accidental mention that could reveal a change in routine or a new detail about the building's structure.

As his mind navigated an ocean of strategies and possibilities, a scent deeply rooted in his memories began to fill the air, distracting him for a moment. It was the aroma of stew, that dish the orphanage served over and over again, so familiar that he could identify each ingredient with just a sniff. The smell, though simple, had always been a reminder of the care he received in the orphanage, and in previous times, it gave him a sense of security and belonging.

However, that day, that smell also brought a reminder of time, of the unchanging structure of life in the orphanage, and of the inexorable march of the clock toward the time of his plan.

Before he could dive even deeper into his thoughts, the voice of Director Collins, with her distinctive blend of authority and affection, echoed in the air: "Children, it's lunchtime." That voice, to which so many children obediently responded without hesitation, became another anchor that brought him back to the present.

With a slight start, Eamon stood up, quickly adjusting his expression so as not to reflect the whirlwind of emotions and plans churning inside him. He mingled with the other children, walking to the dining hall with measured steps, trying, by all means, to appear as just another hungry child eager for his meal. But as he served himself stew and listened to the lively conversations around him, a part of him was far away, counting the hours, the minutes, preparing for the challenge that awaited him when the sunset and the orphanage plunged into darkness.

—oo—

'It's time,' Eamon thought with determination as the shadows of the night covered every corner of the orphanage. The soft snores and deep breaths of the other children filled the room. They were deep in sleep, unaware of the daring plan that Eamon was about to carry out.

He had practiced this moment in his mind for days, every small movement, every corner, and shadow he could use as a refuge if needed. His fingers brushed the wood of the bed, feeling the roughness of the fibers beneath his skin, a final grasp at familiarity before venturing into the unknown hallway.

The orphanage's walls, so familiar during the day, took on a different aspect under the night's cloak. Stories the older children talked about spirits and nocturnal monsters came to his mind, but Eamon shook his head, dispersing those thoughts. This was not the time for childish fears.

Every step he took seemed to amplify in the silence of the night, but he knew it was more a personal perception than a reality. As he advanced, the silhouette of Mrs. Jenkins came into view in the distance, illuminated by the faint light filtering in from the kitchen. Eamon pressed against the wall, hiding behind a large indoor plant in the hallway, patiently waiting for the woman to move further into the kitchen. Once he was sure she was absorbed in her tea ritual, he swiftly slid along the opposite wall, going unnoticed in front of the partially open door to the kitchen.

Further ahead, Mr. Thompson's gentle snoring reached his ears. As he cautiously approached, he could see the dim light of a lamp and Mr. Thompson dozing in his favorite chair, an open book resting on his lap. Here, Eamon had to be especially careful. If the man woke up, even for a second, it would be the end of his mission. He moved with extreme care, avoiding the floorboards he knew creaked and using furniture and shadows as a screen to slip by unnoticed.

Passing the risky area, he could feel his heart beginning to slow its frantic pace, although the tension did not leave his body. He was getting closer and closer to the hallway that led to Director Collins' office, and each obstacle overcome gave him a bit more confidence in his ability to carry out his bold plan. However, he couldn't afford to let his guard down; the stealth game was not yet over.

After what seemed like hours, but was actually only minutes, Eamon finally reached the hallway that led to Director Collins' office. The door stood before him, imposing and challenging. He knew this was the real challenge. He took a deep breath, trying to connect with the inner "buzz", that guide that gave him clues about how his magic would manifest.

But something wasn't right. Eamon felt something twisting inside him as if an inner force wanted to break free. Every time he connected with magic to open the door, that sensation of cold fear enveloped him more and more. His "buzz" sent him warning signals, like a distant echo shouting at him to stop. It indicated that the door, that old sturdy wood that had withstood the passage of time and the elements, was in imminent danger of being shattered by the brute force of his power.

Stepping back, he could feel cold sweat running down his back. Despite the cold darkness of the hallway, the heat of worry and nervousness enveloped him. He mentally scolded himself, repeating over and over that he couldn't afford failure at that critical moment. Not when he was so close.

With sweaty palms and his heart pounding in his ears, he took several deep breaths, focusing on his goal. Like a master locksmith in front of a complicated lock, Eamon knew it wasn't just a matter of strength, but of subtlety. Of finding that delicate balance between desire and skill. So, closing his eyes, he experimented with different approaches and mindsets, seeking the right harmony, the exact nuance of intention he needed.

Time seemed to have stopped. Despite his numerous attempts, nothing seemed to work. But just as despair threatened to consume him, he felt the soft and anticipated 'click' of the lock giving way to his magical touch. A burst of relief and excitement enveloped him, and he quickly opened the door, slipping into the office like a shadow.

He ran silently towards the archives, each step sharpened by the adrenaline coursing through his system. He could feel his heart resonating against his chest, each beat marking the rhythm of his growing excitement. The shelves filled with meticulously organized files rose before him like monuments of information. Eamon was at the mercy of those documents, hoping to find answers.

The space was illuminated only by the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains of the office. Despite the darkness, he could make out the layout of the room. A sturdy dark wooden table stood in the center, covered with papers, inkwells, and a meticulously placed feather quill. The walls were adorned with diplomas and accolades, witnesses to Director Collins' commitment and dedication. A portrait of a young Collins with a determined gaze hung prominently, reminding everyone of her authority.

In a corner, he saw a list hanging on the wall, with the names of all the children in the orphanage. Upon closer examination, he noticed something strange: the list had more names than he remembered seeing in the orphanage. What did that mean? His curiosity burned, but his mission was clear. He had to focus on finding his own file.

Returning to the shelves, with trembling yet determined fingers, he began to search among the folders classified alphabetically. Every label he passed reminded him of a familiar face. 'Patricia, Carol, Raymond, Eddie, and Henry... they're all here,' Eamon noted with curiosity. But at that moment, there was only one name that mattered.

Just as Eamon had advanced more than halfway through the folders and was about to reach the letter that marked his last name, a faint and trembling light stopped him in his tracks. A golden glow that danced with the tenacity and gentleness of fire filtered through the frosted glass of the door. He needed no more to understand: it was the light of a candle, moving erratically, swaying to the rhythm of slow and steady steps. Eamon's heart began to beat frantically, like a war drum announcing the start of a battle.

For a moment, he felt like a tiny mouse cornered by a cat. Panic enveloped him like a cold blanket, and his thoughts revolved around the imminent capture. How had he not considered that Director Collins might return to her office so late? He cursed himself for his recklessness. Trying to regain control of the situation, he crouched behind a shelf, pressing his back against the cold, hard metal, hoping the shadows would hide him from any prying eyes. His breath was shallow, trying not to make any noise.

Then, a sound exacerbated his already frantic state of alertness: the unmistakable jingle of a key hitting metal. Eamon recognized that sound: it was the master key that Director Collins wore on her bracelet, the one that opened all the doors of the orphanage. Panic intensified as he heard the key being slowly inserted into the lock. Every turn, every creak of the internal mechanisms, accentuated his paralyzing fear of being discovered. The words 'Seriously?' fluttered in his mind, repeating over and over as terror took hold of him.

A/N: Hello to y'all!

I wanted to take a moment to thank you for joining this exciting journey in my first fanfic. I'm thrilled to share this story with you and see how it unfolds. I want you to know that I genuinely appreciate your support and the time you've spent reading my words.

I understand that author's notes can become a bit repetitive, so I'll try not to clutter your screens with them constantly. However, I wanted to convey my heartfelt gratitude for being here. If you enjoyed the read or have any advice or constructive criticism to share, I would be immensely grateful. Every comment and review matters to me and helps me improve.

Also, just for you to know, this story is also being written in Spanish. You can find it in my profile.

Until the next chapter and thank you again for being a part of this!

Daskar out!