Harris Wells was now eleven years old.
And he was nothing like the boy he had been.
He stood taller, stronger, not just in body, but in presence. The quiet, sharp-eyed boy who once stared at clouds for hours now trained his body with the same focus he once gave to books.
Each morning began with a routine: push-ups, sit-ups, sprints through the forest trails. Nothing too intense, but enough to build stamina. He knew magic alone wouldn't keep him alive. Physical strength mattered too, especially in a world where danger didn't always come with a wand.
After that came breakfast with Mara and Thom, still clueless about who their boy really was, and then came magic.
He had long since moved past Lumos and Leviosa.
Now, he could light every candle in the room with a single whisper. He could levitate three different objects at once while walking in circles. He had even managed to transfigure a leaf into a paper bird that flapped twice before falling apart.
His rune magic had also improved.
Dozens of carved stones filled a wooden box under his bed, each one charged with basic effects: glowing light, warmth, wind, dryness. He had even crafted a cooling stone that helped Thom store vegetables longer, not that Thom knew how it worked.
Harris had also begun enchanting small tools: a quill that didn't run out of ink, boots that made walking less tiring, and a spoon that stirred on its own. All beginner level, but extremely useful.
"I don't want to be flashy," he often muttered to himself. "I want to be ready."
The mental training never stopped either.
His Occlumency practice had become a part of his daily life. His mind was now a fortress structured and calm. Thoughts no longer wandered, dreams no longer haunted. He could remember his two lives without confusion, even split his attention while casting spells.
His emotions, once messy, were now tools. He didn't suppress them, but he understood them. Controlled them.
And when he meditated each night, his mental room now had walls of obsidian and doors sealed with silver runes.
No one would break into his mind easily.
But it wasn't all progress and perfection.
There were still failures.
Some enchantments fizzled out. Some spells drained too much energy. One time, a small rune stone exploded and burnt his fingertips. Another time, he passed out after trying to shield himself from a falling tree branch with Protego, the spell had worked, but just barely.
Still, he learned from every mistake.
He wrote everything down in his journals now four thick books full of magical theory, notes, runes, dream fragments, and personal thoughts. He kept them hidden beneath a floorboard, just in case.
Sometimes, he would sneak out into the forest and pretend.
Pretend he was already at Hogwarts. Pretend he was facing a Dark wizard. Pretend he was dueling under a starry sky.
But pretending wouldn't last much longer.
He could feel it.
Something was coming.
One quiet summer morning, as the sun poured through his bedroom window, Harris stood shirtless before the mirror, looking at himself.
His arms were lean but firm. His skin held light scars, memories of forest stumbles and rune burns. His silver eyes glowed slightly in the light.
"I'm ready," he whispered to himself.