A full year had passed since the night Harris Wells was nearly torn apart in the forest.
He still remembered the glowing eyes, the rush of fear, and the painful realization that he was not strong enough. That night had changed him.
Now, at nine years old, Harris was sharper, quieter, and more focused than ever before.
He trained daily, not in flashy magic or powerful spells, but in control. Precision. Stability.
Each morning, while his foster parents cooked breakfast, Harris practiced his first spell of the day:
"Aguamenti."
A trickle of water flowed from his wooden wand substitute into a cup. Some days, it was just a few drops. Other days, it splashed onto the table. But slowly, he was improving.
He'd carved runes into a handful of stones: "Ignis" for heat, "Lux" for light, "Aeris" for breeze. These little rune-stones now helped him with daily chores, boiling water, drying clothes, lighting candles. Magic had become a quiet part of his life.
And no one noticed.
Not Mara. Not Thom.
They thought he was just clever with tools.
But what truly challenged Harris now wasn't external.
It was his mind.
The dreams had gotten worse.
Some nights he would wake up gasping, not remembering if he was Harris Wells or the boy he used to be. Sometimes he saw things flickers of memories, glimpses of battles, faces that weren't his.
He needed control.
He needed protection.
And so, he began studying something very few children would even dream of:
Occlumency.
A branch of mental magic meant to protect the mind. Most wizards didn't learn it until adulthood, if at all. But Harris had his eidetic memory… and the drive to survive.
He didn't have a real teacher, but he pieced together knowledge from old books, dreams, and instinct.
Every night, he sat on his bed, legs crossed, eyes closed.
He pictured his mind as a room.
At first, it was messy, broken shelves, loose memories, voices whispering from every corner.
His job was to clean it. Organize it.
Build walls.
Bit by bit, he imagined stacking bricks smooth, silver bricks around the room. Each memory tucked safely behind a door. Each fear locked away in a chest.
The process gave him headaches.
Sometimes, he'd fall asleep mid-meditation. Sometimes, he'd feel worse the next day. But then came progress.
One night, the voices were… gone.
The next morning, he remembered everything clearly, both lives, but with distance, like flipping through pages in a book instead of drowning in them.
He smiled to himself.
It was working.
In the evenings, after chores were done, he would sit with Mara and Thom.
Mara Wells, with her warm smile and soft voice, always called him her "little wonder." She didn't know the half of it.
Thom, with his quiet strength and love for gardening, taught Harris how to grow herbs, how to care for animals, how to listen to the world.
They weren't blood, but they were his family.
And Harris never forgot that.
One night, as he sat by the fire, reading an old book on herb lore, Mara touched his shoulder.
"You've grown so much, Harris," she said. "Sometimes I feel like you're not really a child."
He smiled gently. "Maybe I just think a lot."
She laughed. "Just promise me you won't grow up too fast."
He looked into her kind eyes and nodded.
"I'll try."
But inside, Harris knew the truth.
He had to grow up fast.
Because the magical world was out there waiting.
And it wouldn't wait for him to be ready.