The Royal London Hospital, 10 July 1976, 6:00 AM
"He's perfect, Jane. Just like you," said Adam Hill, cradling his newborn son, his voice thick with awe. His broad shoulders strained the seams of a wrinkled suit, evidence of a long night spent pacing the hospital corridors. He gazed at the tiny bundle in his arms, marvelling at the small, perfect fingers.
Jane Hill, propped up in the hospital bed, her auburn hair damp with sweat, managed a tired but radiant smile. "If he's anything like me, he'll be breaking hearts left and right."
Adam chuckled, brushing a thumb gently over the baby's fist. A lawyer with a sharp mind for loopholes, he was used to commanding courtrooms, but this moment left him utterly disarmed. Jane, a journalist for The Times, had a gift for uncovering hidden truths, and even now, exhausted, her eyes gleamed with curiosity.
"Have you settled on a name?" Adam asked, glancing at his wife.
"David," Jane said firmly, her voice carrying a quiet certainty. "David Hill."
Summer 1987, London — Eleven Years Later
David Hill, now eleven, stood before his bedroom mirror, adjusting his glasses and raking a hand through his messy brown hair. Life as David Hill was a far cry from his previous existence as Tony Foreman. Where Tony had grown up an orphan, aching for family, David was enveloped in love. Adam and Jane, despite their demanding careers, always made time for him. They cheered his triumphs—like his victory in the school spelling bee at seven—and disciplined him gently when he misbehaved, often by withholding his favourite custard cake.
Being a child again was disorienting at first. The rush of emotions, the inability to mask joy or sorrow, the boundless energy—it was overwhelming. But a child's mind and body helped David let go of Tony's past and embrace his new life. He laughed freely, made friends easily, and soaked up his parents' lessons. Yet, faint echoes of Tony's memories lingered, like whispers in a dream, urging him to heed something greater: the whispering leaves of the English Oak, as the mysterious Ripper Jarvis had foretold.
On a warm July morning, as David helped his mother chop vegetables in the kitchen, the doorbell rang.
"David, can you get that?" Jane called, stirring a pot of soup.
David opened the door to find a tall figure in a charcoal-grey robe, a pointed hat perched atop her head. The woman's stern yet kind eyes studied him closely.
"Good morning," she said. "I am Professor Aurora Sinistra, from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. May I speak with David Hill and his parents?"
David's heart leapt. Tony's memories of the Harry Potter books and films had prepared him for this moment, but the reality sent a thrill through his veins. "Yes, ma'am. Please come in."
An hour later, the Hill family sat in their cosy living room, Professor Sinistra explaining the wizarding world. Adam and Jane, both Muggle-born in their way, listened with a mix of scepticism and wonder. David, however, could barely contain his excitement.
"So, you're saying our son is… a wizard?" Adam asked, rubbing his temples as if to process the impossible.
"Precisely," Sinistra replied calmly. "David has shown signs of magical ability and has been offered a place at Hogwarts. We'll need to visit Diagon Alley to gather his supplies."
Jane's journalist instincts kicked in. "Is it safe, this magical world? What's it like?"
Sinistra's smile was faint but reassuring. "It has its wonders and its challenges, like any world. Hogwarts is a place of learning and protection, and David will be well cared for."
David's eyes sparkled. "Can we go to Diagon Alley today?"
Diagon Alley, Later That Day
Diagon Alley was a whirlwind of colour and chaos, its cobblestone streets alive with witches and wizards. Guided by Professor Sinistra, the Hillsmarvelledd at shops brimming with cauldrons, broomsticks, and strange creatures. Adam, ever the lawyer, insisted on buying The Statutes of Secrecy, a book on wizarding law, while Jane picked up A History of Magic to satisfy her curiosity. David, his mind buzzing with Tony's knowledge of Harry Potter's world, couldn't stop staring at the bustling alley.
At David's request, they visiteEeyore'sps Owl Emporium, where he chose a sleek stone's fish owl with piercing amber eyes.
"I'll call you Umber," he whispered, stroking its feathers.
Their final stop was Ollivander's Wand Shop. The dim, dusty store hummed with magic, its shelves stacked high with wand boxes. A soft voice greeted them from the shadows.
"Welcome," said Garrick Ollivander, his silver eyes glinting as he stepped forward. "David Hill, I presume?"
"Yes, sir," David said, shaking the wandmaker's hand.
Ollivander studied him for a long moment, then began pulling wands from the shelves. "Let's find the wand that chooses you."
After twenty minutes and a dozen wands—some sparking faintly, others stubbornly inert—Ollivander returned with a slender box.
"English oak, thirteen inches, phoenix feather core, unyielding."
David grasped the wand, and a warm rush surged through him, like sunlight piercing a forest canopy. Sparks of gold and green burst from the tip, and Ollivander's face lit up.
"A fine match," he said. "English oak is a loyal wood, steadfast in both light and shadow. It favours those with strength of character and a touch of destiny. This wand will excel in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, and Care of Magical Creatures, though it demands patience to master new spells. Use it wisely, Mr. Hill."
David nodded, clutching the wand tightly. The prophecy from his past life echoed in his mind: Bearer of the English Oak… the key to all that was hidden.