These two people watched me closely but made no move to act.

  “It seems, Poppy, the boy has finally come to his senses,” the old man said.

  “I agree,” Poppy replied, her gaze sharp and assessing. “Albus, do you understand us, young man?”

  “I doubt it, Poppy,” Albus said, shaking his head with mild irritation. “After all, he’s been… well, from birth.”

  “I understand,” I croaked, startled by how stiffly my lips and tongue moved. “As if I was sleeping. Seeing a dream…”

  I spoke in short, halting phrases, but each sound I managed sharpened my speech. Those elven techniques—handy for rapid learning and mental recovery—worked wonders. My skills adapted to this body astonishingly fast! Or perhaps there was another reason.

  The largest fragment of my memory—a thousand years of life, yet as riddled with gaps as it was vast—surfaced unbidden. Digging into its unraveling associations, imagination, and sensory echoes, I latched onto a few constants threading through it. The feel of a bow’s handle in one hand, an arrow pinched between fingers in the other. The bowstring’s tension felt real, yet I couldn’t even vaguely recall the bow’s shape or a single face. Those details were absent—no associative trails led to them. I could reconstruct the sensations from other fragments’ indirect data, but it’d be just that: a reconstruction. Memory’s foundation, after all, lies in neural impulses sparking responses, simulating stimuli. It’s not the whole mechanism, but it’s the bedrock of organic memory—and these fragments seemed to have spurred my nervous system’s development accordingly.

  “The dream turned out to be life,” I continued, snapping back to reality. “I remember a lot. It takes practice…”

  “That’s splendid news!” the gray-bearded old man said, his half-moon glasses glinting as he smiled. “Truth be told, we’ve been eagerly awaiting your awakening.”

  “Curb your enthusiasm, Albus,” the woman beside him chided, casting him a reproachful look. “Your fancy wordplay’s out of place here. Keep it simple.”

  “You’re right, Poppy. Habit,” he conceded, then turned to me. “Do you know who you are?”

  “A boy, thirteen years old, a wizard—Hector Granger.”

  “Your family?”

  “Parents, Emma and Robert Granger. Sister, Hermione Granger. Parents are dentists. Sister’s about to finish her second year at Hogwarts.”

  Glancing around the room, I added, “This school. Strange. It felt like a dream—real, but a dream. Turns out, it wasn’t.”

  “May I check your condition?” Albus asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Poppy?”

  The woman needed no further prompting. She drew her wand and approached, waving it through the air. Curiosity flared in me, but human eyes can’t detect magical radiation, so I saw nothing distinct. In the visible spectrum, faint ripples of spatial distortion flowed from her wand toward me. After ten seconds of silent gestures, she stepped back to the old man, who sat smiling.

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  “Everything’s fine, Albus,” she reported, “except his brain activity’s dipped slightly—it’s still abnormally high. He’s underweight, thin, with some complex muscle underdevelopment. Beyond that, he’s in perfect shape.”

  “Excellent news,” Albus said. “I had faith it’d work out—and in your skills, as well as Smethwick’s. All that’s left is to observe him for a couple of days, ensure the recovery holds, and if there’s no relapse or regression, Mr. Granger can be discharged.”

  His words were directed more at me, and Poppy’s eyes confirmed she’d reached the same conclusion.

  “Could you introduce yourselves?” I asked, looking at them.

  “Ah, yes! Old age isn’t kind—I forgot,” the old man said with a smile. “Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

  “Poppy Pomfrey, mediwitch,” the woman added. “I work in Hogwarts’ hospital wing, where you are right now, by the way.”

  “I see. Thank you. Hector Granger—you already know,” I said. “Do they feed people here?”

  Albus chuckled, wished me well, and left the room. Madam Pomfrey promised a hearty dinner in moments, asked me to wait, and followed him out. True to her word, dinner appeared—suddenly, on its own—filling the empty space on the table. Salads, meat dishes, sides, tea, juice, buns. Intriguing, since each dish demanded a specific approach to cutlery, not just spoon-scooping. A skill test, perhaps? I didn’t mind.

  After that visit, time sped by. Madam Pomfrey checked on me frequently—casting spells, examining me, bringing potions, and chatting about random topics. More accurately, she posed questions to spark my urge to speak, mostly about daily life. It served dual purposes: gauging my grasp of reality and practicing conversation. By the third day, I could talk smoothly—my speech muscles and ligaments adapted to the unfamiliar strain, my words flowing clearly without distortion.

  Basic physical activity—moving around or handling cutlery, books, notebooks, pencils—was manageable, but complex motor skills or unusual movements were out of reach. This body was sorely underdeveloped in that regard; it’d take time to build up. Still, I was flexible.

  The mental block I’d tuned finished its work on the first day, sparing me the chaos of conflicting emotions. But the fragments didn’t stop influencing me—they *are* me, and this “me” dislikes… a lot. Thanks to those memories, I’m dissatisfied with nearly every aspect of my situation. A dwarf should be a stout warrior, a skilled smith, a shrewd trader from youth—strong and enduring. If not, it’s better to march down the deep paths on a final quest than shame the clan with weakness. As an elf, I should master the arts, be agile and deadly in combat, boast a slew of skills. If not, it’s time to ponder the point of immortal life and whether to nourish the mallorns with my remains. There’s a wagonload of such “ifs.” Only my human core shrugs, “Mediocrity at thirteen? That’ll do!”

  All week, I wrestled with how to move forward. From this body’s memories, I’d need to mend ties with family, study at this Hogwarts—whatever that entails—grow up, and so on. Horrible. Just horrible.

  After a week of observation, old Dumbledore returned, and we set off for my parents via fireplace—an astonishing transport system piercing space itself! I didn’t grasp its mechanics, but associations from memory fragments gave me a rough idea of what it was. Still, I’m unsure how to handle these fragment memories. They feel like I’d starred in some immersive film—vivid yet detached, more information than emotion. Information I need to study properly.

  We emerged into a dingy, tavern-like pub—the Leaky Cauldron, as the Headmaster explained. Its few patrons looked rough, almost homeless, despite it being the late twentieth century. For wizards, as I assumed they were, it was a disgraceful state.

  “One of the few entrances to Diagon Alley, London’s main magical street,” Dumbledore said as we headed for the exit. Many patrons nodded and smiled at him along the way. “I’m sure Professor McGonagall will tell you more when you go shopping. Or would you prefer your sister?”

  “Don’t know,” I replied.

  “Perhaps that’s for the best,” he said. “Though, from what I hear, she plans to spend the rest of the holidays with friends.”

  “Then I won’t bother her.”

  Stepping out of the Leaky Cauldron, we landed on a perfectly ordinary, era-appropriate London street. People in everyday clothes hustled about, cars rumbled by, urban noise assaulted our ears, and the city’s smog hit my senses hard—a sensory shock for the unaccustomed.

  “And here are your parents,” Dumbledore said with a smile, nodding toward a car parked nearby—an old Land Rover, dated even by today’s standards.

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