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  The Headmaster waved his hand lightly in the air, and I felt a faint ripple of energy. The man and woman by the car—faces I vaguely recalled—immediately turned their attention to us.

  “Headmaster Dumbledore?” the woman asked, glancing at the old man before fixing her gaze on me. “Hector?”

  “Hello? Probably,” I replied with a nod, keeping my tone neutral. Then the floodgates opened.

  My mother—her resemblance to me was so striking even a blind person would’ve noticed—rushed forward, enveloping me in a hug and unleashing a torrent of wails. Understandable; it was the first time she’d seen her son with a fully conscious, rational look. My father, far more reserved, approached and shook Dumbledore’s hand.

  “Thank you for your help,” he said.

  “As I’ve said before,” the Headmaster replied with a smile, “it wasn’t difficult or costly. Even without our aid, the boy would’ve recovered—albeit a bit later.”

  After exchanging a few more words with Dumbledore, my parents hustled me into the car. My mother slid into the back seat beside me, her arms still wrapped around me with no sign of letting go. I hoped I wouldn’t snap—I’m as thin as a twig.

  At home, they gave me the full tour, though I already remembered everything. Then they sat me at the table.

  “So skinny, what a nightmare,” my mother fretted, piling something meaty onto my plate.

  “I was like this before,” I said. “I told you—I remember everything.”

  My hands fumbled with the fork, struggling to grip it as the shards’ etiquette demanded. I simplified my hold to match how this body had learned on autopilot. Yes, I knew the human way of wielding utensils, but that damned elf shard—though nearly empty—carried habits ingrained from a far longer life.

  “I need more practice,” I muttered aloud.

  My parents exchanged looks of relief.

  The day unfolded in a similar rhythm. They showed me things around the house, gave me a crash course on “what’s what and how to use it.” To my surprise, some technical details—like the TV remote—initially stumped me, but a reluctant understanding of the cathode-ray tube’s innards and the remote’s function bubbled up from memory, along with how to use it.

  Hermione. My sister. Just another girl, really. She’d gone off to visit friends, and my parents griped about the lack of contact—no phones, just postal owls. Wizards had no better communication, apparently. Absurd. Oh well, no use bringing my own rules to someone else’s game.

  Though I’d celebrated my birthday—July 4—at Hogwarts, nothing stopped us from marking it with tea and cake at home. By July 20, the buzz over my recovery had settled, and my parents stopped hovering like fairy-tale bears around a honey pot. Now I could not only read various books to test my knowledge but also think in peace—and there was plenty to ponder.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  First, my physique. A healthy body means a healthy mind, and that’s no mere saying. For any magical being—any organic entity gifted with energy manipulation—the body’s condition is critical. When Healer Smethwick visited us, if my spotty memory of this life holds, he mentioned a “triad”: body, soul, mind. The soul’s state still needs checking, the mind’s mostly sorted, leaving the body.

  Right now, I’m the proud owner of a thirteen-year-old male frame—slightly taller than my peers, thin, with mediocre muscles. My health’s supposedly fine, save for an overactive brain. That needs fixing—not the brain part, but the physical development. Several approaches could help: classic physical training, boosted by magical support like potions and tinctures. But first, I need to assess my magical abilities and connect with various energies. That means starting with magic.

  What do I know about magic from the fragments? Not much—mostly broad strokes and recurring thoughts from their minds, plus a couple dozen oft-used techniques imprinted deeply. Magic is the conscious manipulation of the universe’s diverse energies to alter or manifest reality’s properties. Simply put, magic’s a discipline; sorcery’s the act.

  Since magic involves controlling energies, the obvious question arises: *Which* energies? The answer’s deceptively simple—any. Elves once proved everything that exists is a form of energy. Layer that onto reality’s multidimensionality, and you get an infinite array of energies, each with unique types and traits.

  Multidimensionality? Countless dimensions within one space, many brimming with specific energies named for their effects or properties—like fire, water, electricity, life, light, darkness, death, and so on. An endless multitude. Some blend to form complex variants; others can’t mix—like matter and antimatter—resulting in a spectacular boom.

  Yawning loudly, I decided it was bedtime. No matter how healthy this body was, endurance wasn’t its strength. Yes, sleep…

  The soft, comfy pillow beneath my head faded into a cool summer breeze, carrying the scents of a magical forest—I knew it instantly. Stepping lightly over a gnarled root jutting from the earth, I glanced up at the thick green canopy, sunlight barely piercing through.

  A step, then another—silent as a whisper. My hand gripped a bow handle with familiar ease, an arrow itching to leap from the quiver as my eye caught a shadow flitting between trees. The arrow slipped into my fingers, and I drew the bowstring, aiming on the move. Gathering a wisp of wind magic, I wove it into the arrow with a simple construct.

  With a sharp twang, the bowstring released. Guided by my will, the arrow wove past tree trunks, and a moment later, a grubby man in leather armor crumpled from behind a tree in the distance.

  “They’re here!” a man’s shout rang out in some human dialect, but I’d already sensed the enemy—direction and distance locked in.

  Arrows flew from my quiver one after another, arcing through the air. With magic’s nudge, they swerved unerringly into enemy hearts. In moments, it was over, leaving only the shrill cries of disturbed birds high in the treetops.

  A few dozen light, effortless leaps brought me to one of the bodies. Hovering my palms above it, I conjured a diagnostic seal—green, alive with life energy. It blinked, and darkness swallowed me.

  I opened my eyes again, standing beside a twig-woven crib where a chubby-cheeked, pointy-eared toddler snored sweetly beneath white sheets. A green diagnostic seal drifted from my outstretched hands over him. His parents stayed silent, letting me work. Finishing quickly, I turned to the right, meeting the anxious yet hopeful gazes of a youthful-looking elven couple in loose, plant-patterned robes.

  “Your baby’s perfectly healthy,” I said with a faint smile. “That’s great news.”

  The mother exhaled in relief, her smile breaking free, while her husband gave a solemn nod, as if it were a given. She met my gaze again, catching a flicker of concern beneath my polite cheer.

  “But it’s not all good news, is it?” she asked, her worry resurfacing.

  “You’re right,” I admitted with a reserved nod.

  “Speak, healer—don’t keep us waiting,” the father urged, his tone measured.

  “The baby has a strong predisposition to connect with the dimension of death energy,” I replied.