Disclaimer: All recognizable characters, settings, and lore from the Harry Potter universe are the property of J.K. Rowling and her respective publishers/licensees. This is a work of fan fiction intended for entertainment purposes only, and no copyright infringement is intended. The character of Patrik Rosier and any other original characters or plotlines are my own creation.
Author's Note & Introduction
Hi everyone! Currently, I'm stuck at home with a broken leg and way too much free time. I've decided to use this opportunity to fulfill a childhood dream of writing. Since I consider myself an amateur and I'm just starting out, I chose the world of Fanfiction as my training ground.
A note on the language: I write in my native language and translate the text into English using AI. I then manually review and edit it to ensure it flows correctly. You might still encounter some grammatical hiccups or "non-native" phrasing, but I believe the story remains clear. Plus, this project is a great way for me to improve my English—a win-win for everyone!
What to Expect (and what NOT to expect):
The Protagonist: Don't expect a hero who talks about flowers and feelings. This is a grown man in a child's body (SI). He possesses adult intelligence and life experience. I am writing him based on how I would personally react in these situations.
Romance: No "star-crossed lovers" and definitely no harem. In the real world, I've never met a woman who would be okay with me having another partner on the side, so I'm keeping it realistic.
Combat & Realism: I have a background in Muay Thai, BJJ, and MMA. I prefer gritty action and logical combat. The protagonist will be physically capable within the limits of biology. A 30kg child cannot knock out a 100kg man with a punch, regardless of technique (unless it's a perfectly timed elbow to the temple). Expect a slow, realistic progression in physical, magical, and intellectual abilities.
Hard Work: No "System," no handouts, and no instant "Dark Lord" status at age eleven. He won't fall in love with Hermione at first sight. Everything will be earned through hard work.
The World:
Expect a dangerous world where magic has consequences.
Dark Magic is terrifying: Imagine a powerful, dark wizard with no morals. Imperio here, Confundo there. There is no "easy button" to detect these charms.
Real-world consequences: How do you get rich? A simple Imperio/Confundo chain: "Sell your assets, bring me the cash, walk off a bridge." It's not quite that simple, but that's the level of realism and ruthlessness you can expect from this setting.
I hope you enjoy the ride! Feedback is always welcome.
***
I had a splitting headache. It felt exactly as if I'd spent the entire previous night in a bar, downing liters of cheap alcohol. Where was I yesterday, and what on earth was I doing? I couldn't remember, so I chose to keep my eyes closed, hoping the pain would pass.
Was I at home? Or at Bran's, my best friend's place? Or was my girlfriend about to lunge at me with a wooden spoon the second I opened my eyes? Just kidding... I probably had the best girlfriend I could have ever asked for.
Okay, don't be a coward, Patrik, I ordered myself.
Slowly, I opened my eyes and was instantly hit by a wave of shock. I was lying in a hospital. Although it looked a bit old-fashioned, anyone who has spent even a single day in a hospital would recognize those uncomfortable metal beds with plastic-covered mattresses and the omnipresent scent of disinfectant.
What the hell happened last night? Why do I have an IV line running into my vein?
And why are my hands so brutally small? Where did the blisters on my palms and the scrapes on my knuckles disappear to?
Something had happened, and something was very, very wrong. In that moment, I was flooded with sheer confusion and disbelief.
"Okay, Patrik, calm down," I whispered to myself into the quiet of the room. "Inhale for four seconds, hold for four seconds, exhale for four seconds. Nice and steady, in sets." I used the tried-and-tested stress-relief breathing technique that had saved my skin more than once.
Wait... Did I imagine it, or did I just speak in English?
"Testing, one two, testing, one two. What's your name? How are you?" I said aloud, uttering the first things that popped into my head to test my vocal cords. By then, I was absolutely sure that something was fucking wrong.
Because I wasn't speaking my native language. Fluent English was flowing from my mouth. How was that possible? English had always been just a second language to me. Sure, I spoke it fluently, but it wasn't my mother tongue. It wasn't the language I would subconsciously or instinctively default to. And certainly not to the point where I wouldn't even notice I was thinking and speaking in it.
"Alright, Patrik, let's look at the facts," I mumbled under my breath. "You're in a hospital, you have no idea what happened, and you don't remember last night. This is definitely not your body—it looks like a child's. My tattoos and scars are gone, which only proves that this really isn't me. And my primary, native language is suddenly English."
Inhale. Hold. Slow exhale. Once more. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. And one last time. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Fine. I don't know where I am. I don't know who this body belongs to. I don't even know if I'm in danger. The only thing I can do is stay calm, be careful, and find out as much as possible.
The IV in my hand was driving me crazy. It irritated me with every movement, compounded by an unbearable thirst that was parching my throat. Using slow, careful fingers, I gripped the tube and pulled the needle out of my vein. I pressed my fingers against the tiny wound for a moment to stop the bleeding. Then, pushing myself up against the bed, I slowly lowered my legs toward the cold floor.
But there was a problem. My feet didn't reach the floor. Dammit... I really am in a child's body. The weight of that realization hit me fully.
I had no choice. I had to jump down. Fortunately, the bed wasn't too high. As I landed, I quickly realized something else—my muscles weren't stiff or atrophied. So I hadn't been lying here for long. By all indications, it couldn't have been more than twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
Near the door, I noticed a small sink, a cup, and a mirror. As soon as I shuffled over to them, I immediately filled the cup with water. My throat was completely parched, as if I hadn't had a single drop in days. First, I slowly rinsed my mouth, and only then did I take a cautious sip.
But I still didn't have the courage to look in the mirror.
Had I stolen someone's body? A boy who had his whole life ahead of him? What actually happened to me... and what happened to him?
In the end, I brushed these thoughts aside. Procrastinating never solved any problems. Slowly, I raised my head and braced myself to look into the mirror.
But reality stopped me before I could see anything.
I was too short. I simply couldn't see into the mirror.
I quickly went back to the bed. Next to the nightstand stood a wooden chair for visitors. With some effort, I dragged it over to the mirror. It was surprisingly heavy. Not only had I ended up in a strange body, but I was also weak as a kitten.
I slowly climbed onto it and finally looked into the mirror.
Another shock was waiting for me.
I saw an oval face, dark brown hair, and eyes with a shade somewhere between brown and green. My cheeks and features still retained a typical childish chubbiness. A thick bandage was wrapped around the crown of my head, making me look a bit like a little mummy.
I looked exactly like I did in that first-grade photo—holding a primer in my hand. The very same photo I had once posted on Instagram as a joke.
"It's my body... but from when I was maybe seven to ten years old," I whispered, staring blankly at my reflection. I couldn't believe it.
Was I in the past? But then, why the English? I assumed the brain automatically drew on the knowledge I already had stored. So this body wasn't mine... but at the same time, it kind of was. What did that actually mean?
Was it some parallel universe? An English version of Patrik? Had I ended up in a fictional world? Something like DC, Marvel, or Harry Potter?
I didn't understand it. But I knew one thing for sure—without more information, I wouldn't get anywhere.
I had to prepare for whatever was coming, and most of all, get this body back in shape. My head still throbbed, as if an angry Thor were pounding on it with his hammer.
The best thing to do would be to sleep. Maybe this whole thing was just a bad dream, and once I woke up, everything would make sense again.
Slowly, I slipped back under the covers, closed my eyes, and almost instantly fell into a deep sleep.
***
I was jolted from my heavy sleep by a sharp, annoying knock on the door.
Who could that be? And what did they want anyway? Wasn't it the weekend?
Annoyed, I opened my eyes. A moment later, I had to close them again and blink in disbelief. It wasn't a dream.
I was still in the hospital. I was still in the body of a little boy.
"Come in!" I called out.
But the voice that came out of me wasn't at all what I expected. Instead of a decisive tone, it was just the faint squeak of a little puppy.
With a voice like this, it's going to be really hard to command respect, I thought.
A short, stocky man with an unkempt beard and cheap, ill-fitting clothes entered the room. He had a smile on his face, but it was exactly the kind of smile that never reached a person's eyes.
If I were an ordinary child, I might have believed him. I might not have even noticed the red flags. But I instantly went on high alert.
I sized him up. Yellow, neglected teeth. Dirty clothes. An overly cheerful expression. All he was missing was the proverbial candy in his pocket.
All my instincts were telling me to be careful.
There was nothing in the room that could reasonably be used as a weapon—which made sense for a hospital, really. I could only rely on what I had inside me. Years of Muay Thai training.
If he tried anything, my only chance was to react quickly and use the element of surprise.
He slowly walked closer and sat down on the chair next to the bed.
"How are you doing, Patrik? I heard you fell down the stairs," he said, trying to make his voice sound sweet.
"Who are you, and how do you know my name?" I asked. I made sure my voice sounded calm, without a trace of tension.
"Don't you remember me? I'm the maintenance man at the orphanage," he replied with forced sympathy.
He was still smiling, but his eyes gave him away. For a brief moment, I caught something in them that didn't belong. A brief flash of satisfaction. Almost as if he had achieved exactly what he wanted.
At that moment, I knew something wasn't right. And it wasn't just his unpleasant odor of sweat, onions, and musty clothes.
"The orphanage? What orphanage?" slipped out of me in surprise.
"Why, Wool's Orphanage in London, of course," he replied. That triumphant look in his eyes didn't fade.
"I'm sorry, but I don't remember anything at all. Could you tell me more? And what is your name, actually?"
"My name is Adam Bates. What do you want to know? I only came to check on you quickly, I don't have much time," he replied coldly.
The friendly mask was gone.
I was starting to feel almost certain that he had something to do with why I ended up in the hospital.
"What is my last name, Mr. Bates? How old am I, and where exactly are we?"
"Your name is Patrik Rosier. How old you are, I don't know. You'll have to ask the matron for that. Right now, we're in central London, just a short distance from Wool's Orphanage."
No sooner had he finished the last sentence than the room door swung open and a nurse burst in.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?! You have no business being in here!" she shouted angrily.
Fortunately, her anger wasn't directed at me, but at Bates. He immediately sprang from the chair and took a step back from me.
"I... I'm Adam Bates. I work at the orphanage. I just came to check if Patrik is alright," he stammered fearfully.
Why was he suddenly so terrified? Shouldn't he have come here officially? His reaction only solidified my suspicion that Bates was not someone to be trusted.
Life, clearly, isn't fair. And for an orphanage kid, that goes double.
"Leave immediately, or I'll call the police! No one is allowed in this room without staff permission!" the nurse kept yelling.
Bates bolted from the room as if the devil himself were chasing him.
I felt an immense sense of relief. Although I didn't know exactly what his plan was, it was obvious that something was off with him. And in this child's body, I probably wouldn't have been able to defend myself adequately.
Right after he left, a doctor walked into the room. He reminded me a bit of Dr. House, even though he didn't limp or carry a cane. But he had a friendly face with a light stubble, and instantly gained my trust.
"What happened, Helena? How did that man get in here, and what did he want?" the doctor asked, slightly out of breath, as if he had run over the moment he heard the shouting.
"I saw him sitting here talking to Patrik, but I have no idea what they were discussing. I don't understand how he slipped past reception unnoticed at all," the nurse replied.
The doctor noticed me listening intently to their conversation. He gave me a reassuring smile.
"Everything alright, Patrik? How are you feeling?"
"Great. What's actually going on here?" I replied somewhat sarcastically, cutting straight to the chase. There was no point in beating around the bush.
My bluntness clearly amused the doctor. He offered a brief smile and turned to the nurse.
"Helena, please go call the police and bring me his medical chart," he requested in a tone that was polite but left no room for discussion.
The nurse just nodded and left immediately.
He was clearly a capable doctor. Just the way the staff communicated with him suggested he commanded their respect.
"How do you feel?" he asked me with a calm smile.
"Like I'm not even myself..." I replied in a quiet voice. "Who are you? And how did I actually get here? I don't remember anything at all."
"I'm Doctor Barlow. I can't tell you much yet, as I wasn't on duty when you were admitted. I need your chart to find out more details. They should be bringing it to us shortly. In the meantime, I could ask you a few questions."
"Go ahead," I nodded calmly.
Doctor Barlow went straight to the point.
"Who was that man, and what did he want from you?"
"He said his name was Adam Bates and that he works as a maintenance man at the orphanage where I live. He claimed he only came to check on me because I fell down the stairs. But he acted very strangely..." I answered honestly.
I didn't trust Bates as far as I could throw him.
"How so?"
"The whole nice-guy routine felt incredibly forced and fake. Plus, I had a strong feeling that he was genuinely pleased when I told him I couldn't remember anything."
So, that was settled. Without any remorse, I had just thrown him under the bus.
Doctor Barlow ran a hand over his stubble, thought for a moment, and then slowly nodded.
"I see. The police will definitely be interested in Mr. Bates as well," he concluded after a moment.
"Why?" I asked curiously.
"You're in a high-security room that the general public doesn't normally have access to. Such rooms are reserved for patients who have been victims of a crime."
He paused for a moment.
"Based on your injuries and memory loss, it looks like it was an attempted murder," Barlow explained in a calm tone.
"Um, are you even supposed to be telling me this?" I let out an amused laugh. "Not that I'm complaining!" I added quickly.
I was genuinely surprised by his directness. How many doctors would actually tell a small child that someone had tried to kill him? On the other hand, as an adult trapped in a child's body, I was grateful for his honesty.
"You're from an orphanage, Patrik," he replied with a smile. "You have to be careful. I know they're short-staffed at the home."
He paused for a moment, then added with a slight smirk, "Something told me you could handle this piece of information without a hysterical fit."
Before I could reply, there was a soft knock on the door.
"Come in," Barlow called out.
A young nurse walked into the room. She looked really young—I estimated her age to be around fifteen or sixteen, so she was probably a student on placement. She looked directly at me with curiosity and then walked over to the doctor.
"Doctor, Nurse Helena sent me with this medical chart for patient Patrik Evan Rosier," she said, handing him the folder. She gave me a conspiratorial smile and winked.
"Thank you, Eliza. You may go," Barlow replied with a warm smile.
Eliza waved at me once more, spun on her heel, and left.
Meanwhile, Doctor Barlow immersed himself in my medical chart. Silence fell over the room, giving me the perfect opportunity to think.
Someone had tried to kill me. And by all accounts, that slimy maintenance guy, Bates, had something to do with it. The question remained, though: why? Would he really be stupid enough to come in person to check if the victim had survived and remembered anything? And how on earth did he get into a high-security room that the public didn't have access to?
Even my name was strange. Evan Rosier was apparently my father... The surname Rosier sounded incredibly familiar, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember where I knew it from.
Rosier... Rose... Was it related to flowers somehow?
Simply put, I needed more information.
"It's literally a miracle that you're even alive and able to speak," Barlow suddenly spoke up, interrupting my thoughts. "They found you at the bottom of the stairs in a pool of blood. By all rights, you should be in a deep coma right now. The X-rays clearly showed a multiple skull fracture."
"Well... I'm glad I'm alive," I smirked.
So the original owner of this body might have actually died, and I somehow ended up in his vessel—either from the future or from another reality. Fascinating.
"We're glad too. The police are investigating the case and will want to speak with you soon. Of course, I'll tell them about Mr. Bates right away. In the meantime, I'll give you a quick checkup to see how you're doing. Other than the memory loss, does anything else hurt? Do you feel anything unusual?" the doctor asked.
"My head hurts a bit. Exactly like a hangover after downing liters of hard liquor. And my stomach feels a little unsettled," I admitted honestly.
"Liters of liquor? A hangover?" Barlow raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"Well... that's just a figure of speech, isn't it?" I quickly played it off with an innocent, childish smile.
"Ah, I see," he smiled, amused. "We'll prescribe you some painkillers, and I'll have them bring you some warm beef broth for that stomach. Now, turn your back to me, please. I'll check the wound on the crown of your head and see how it's healing."
I turned around and felt him begin to remove the bandage. It didn't come off easily, even though he was being as careful as possible. Dried blood had stuck to the fabric, and with every tug, I felt an unpleasant pull.
When he pulled a bit harder, I let out a quiet hiss like a snake.
Once the bandage was finally all the way off, silence filled the room for a moment.
Then I heard Doctor Barlow let out a surprised gasp.
"Is something wrong, Doctor? Is everything okay?" I asked cautiously, curiosity in my voice.
"Everything... everything is perfectly fine," he said slowly. "Except there is no wound."
"How is that possible? You said I had a severely fractured skull."
"You did. The bandage was completely soaked with blood from the surgery. I never would have thought I'd experience anything like this in my medical career."
"What do you mean?"
"Cases where a child is on the brink of life and death one day, and the next day there's not even a trace of the injury left, are extremely rare. Perhaps one in a million. They call it a miracle, spontaneous healing, or simply a second chance from God. It's talked about in medical circles, but very few truly believe it. To be honest, until recently, I considered doctors who spoke of such things to be melodramatic fools who just made things up to get attention..."
I was left completely speechless. Just like Barlow.
"Well, then I'm glad I'm that one in a million and got a second chance," I said after a moment. "Can I ask you one more thing, Doctor? What year is it, actually?"
Barlow stared at me for a moment.
"Well, I'm immensely glad you're alive, too. Maybe you'll actually make me believe in God," he said with a smirk. "Today is February twentieth, 1988. I'll send a nurse with your medicine and broth, and I'll see you tomorrow morning on rounds. Do you need anything else?"
"No, nothing," I shook my head. "Thank you," I added.
"Then I'll leave you to rest for now. You have a call button on the side of the bed to summon a nurse at any time. Please press it immediately if anyone other than myself or the nurses comes in here," Barlow instructed, slowly turning to leave.
"Aye-aye, boss!" I saluted jokingly before he closed the door behind him.
Finally, I had some quiet time to think. The individual facts started coming together in my head.
First was that the year was 1988. I definitely wasn't in my own past, because I didn't even exist yet in this year.
Second was the fact that my body looked exactly as it did when I was a child myself.
Third, someone had tried to murder me. And technically speaking, they succeeded—the original Patrik had died. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I carried on in his body.
Which brought me to the question: was it just a coincidence, or had something unusual manifested within me?
Fourth was my placement in an orphanage. Where was my family?
And finally, the most important part—my surname and my father's name.
Evan Rosier...
Who on earth was that, and where had I heard that name before?
I had far more questions than answers. There was nothing left to do but wait and see what tomorrow would bring.
***
Author's note:
So, what do you guys think? Is the grammar readable? I've gone through it several times and it seems fine to me, but I'm always open to advice and corrections from native speakers. As for the story itself—what are your first impressions? I'm looking for objective feedback. I decided to upload the first part here because this community is known for being active and providing great critiques. I look forward to your comments!