"You foolish child! You've wasted the chance I gave you, Reyner Lance! You are not worthy to be my successor! Avada Kedavra!"
"Who ever said I wanted to be your damn successor, you snake-faced freak? Harry, get out of the way! You're going to get us killed!"
"But Reyna! We can't just leave and do nothing—Voldemort is still here!"
"Not for long," said a tired voice from the atrium.
"Professor Dumbledore—finally!"
I didn't even have time to greet our headmaster before Voldemort attacked.
At this point, I don't even know how many times I've relived this dream. No matter what I do, it never changes.
I knew the visions were a trap, but I couldn't reason with Harry fast enough before he took off.
And then… everything followed canon.
We arrived at the Ministry, walking straight into Voldemort's trap. Everyone fought for their lives. Reinforcements came with the Order of the Phoenix, but Sirius still fell through the Veil, and—
"Avada Kedavra!"
Here it is again… me dying.
The green light filled my vision before I woke up in a bed I still struggled to call mine—even after years of sleeping in it.
"Yep. Another dream," I muttered under my breath.
I exhaled slowly, trying to calm my nerves. Every time I have this nightmare, the same feeling claws at me: failure.
Reyner Lance.
That was the name I carried in my last life—a life set in the world of Harry Potter. I was thrown there without warning, without guidance, without purpose.
Just a freshly dead high schooler tossed into a world where a single word could kill you.
After some time mourning my old life, I decided to make that world better.
And I failed spectacularly.
Sure, I changed a few things without wrecking the timeline, but I still got myself killed—and not even in the final battle. For God's sake, I was dropped into Harry's fourth year. I couldn't stop Pettigrew or Voldemort's return even if I'd tried.
Now, I've been transmigrated again, this time into the body of a boy named Abel Shaw. Six years ago, I woke up as him, though my memories only resurfaced five weeks ago—after a fever that nearly killed me.
I suppose getting a third chance at life isn't all bad.
Well… actually, it is.
Because this time, I'm in the MCU—or at least a variant of Earth-199999.
That's right. I'm in the freaking Marvel Cinematic Universe.
It became obvious when I saw a young Tony Stark—who looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.—still in his playboy era. Or when Captain America appeared in our history textbooks.
So yeah… I'm royally screwed.
The digital clock on my nightstand glowed: 4:40 a.m.
With a quiet sigh, I got up and padded to the kitchen, careful not to wake my mom. She'd been working overtime again last night.
I made myself a cup of lemon honey water, drank it, changed into my workout clothes, and slipped outside.
Jogging had become my morning ritual.
At this hour, the streets were calm, the air crisp, the city barely awake. It was the perfect time to run—and in this universe, if I wanted to survive, I had to stay in peak condition.
Of course, this was still New York at 4 a.m., so I'd run into my share of troublemakers before. But the combat skills I'd learned in my previous life—fighting Death Eaters—weren't for show. They were real, practical, efficient.
Wizard duels weren't what fanfictions made them out to be. It wasn't just people flinging colorful lights across a field. There was strategy, footwork, precision. Close-quarters combat mixed with wandwork was mandatory for aspiring Aurors.
So yes, wizards weren't as lazy as fanfics made them seem.
And yes—I learned martial arts. Hermione bloody Granger made sure of that. Harry was the magical instructor, but Hermione ran the show behind the scenes. I never asked where she got the training material. Best not to.
Right now, I can't use magic. My reserves completely reset when I transmigrated.
It's already a miracle I kept my connection to magic at all, so I'm not complaining. The real issue is that I can't cast even the weakest spell. My core's still rebuilding from scratch.
It's probably because I don't have a wand—and because I never took wandless magic seriously. Stupid mistake. I blame my past self.
Without a wand and with low reserves, i can't cast barely any spells.
BUT I still have my combat training and that's enough to handle two or three street thugs. If there are more… well, running still counts as exercise, right?
After another block, I returned home around six and found my new mom, Theresa Shaw, already in the kitchen.
Her ginger hair—same color as mine—was messy, her brown eyes heavy with fatigue, but she was still beautiful. She hadn't even showered after work last night, yet there she was, making breakfast.
"Mom, if you're still sleepy, I can make my own breakfast."
"Yawn... Honey, you're too thoughtful. I already can't prepare your lunch and dinner—if I skip breakfast too, that'd be truly negligent."
She walked over with a plate of bacon and eggs, kissed my cheek, and placed it in front of me. Then she brought over toast and milk, sitting down to watch me eat—like she always did.
The more time I spent with Theresa, the more she felt like my real mom. I might not be her biological child, but she was my mother. Not by blood—but by heart.
In my first life, I had no one. No family, no friends, no lover. Pathetic, really.
In my second life, I had friends—best friends even. I just hope they're safe.
Hermione's smart enough to find the book I left behind, the one where I wrote everything I remembered about the first timeline. I hope it'll help them.
Having a mother, for the first time, is something I'll protect with everything I have.
Theresa's the head chef at a Michelin three-star restaurant, constantly on her feet from morning till late night. Overtime is just part of her life, so I learned to cherish every moment we share.
You might be wondering about my father—I mean I obviously got my green hair and brown skin from somewhere.
Mom dodges the question every time. Honestly, I don't push. Why should I care about a man who's never shown up? Not even once.
For all I know, he could be Sebastian Shaw, leader of the Hellfire Club.
And yes—that's an actual possibility. Same last name, after all. And again… Marvel.
"Mom, you should take a break. You haven't rested properly in, what, five months? You're the most overworked Michelin chef I've ever met."
"Honey, don't worry about me. And did you find another chef behind my back? Because as far as I know, I'm the only one you know."
"Touché."
"Alright, it's getting late. Go get ready for school."
College tuition in the U.S. was absurdly expensive—tuition, books, dorms, everything. Most families relied on loans, but Mom didn't want that for me. That's why she'd been working extra shifts. Her pay was good, especially with restaurant shares, but old debts don't vanish overnight.
Ah yes… capitalism—the American dream.
After brushing my teeth and grabbing my bag, I said goodbye to Mom and hopped on my bike.
The ride to Midtown School of Science and Technology wasn't far. I greeted a few classmates before heading inside.
In the hallway, a large screen displayed videos of famous scientists and inventors.
"Tony Stark—renowned scientist, businessman, and philanthropist. Graduated from MIT at seventeen, with doctorates in Mechanical Engineering, Electrical Engineering, and Physics…"
I watched for a moment, then smiled faintly and walked to class.
Yeah… my life is peaceful.
Boring, even.
At least, for now.