So, life energy takes priority—it’s settled. It’ll also prep my body for other energies and magic overall. But the rest? That’s still up in the air. Having energy doesn’t make me superhuman or invincible—it just amplifies witchcraft. The snag is, the fragments’ knowledge is thin, mostly vague theoretical musings. I’m not even sure I can flesh out those layers fully. That means adapting to this world first, then planning. Plus, after binding to life energy, I’ll need to wait six months to a year.

  And, of course, physical training. It’s the key to boosting my condition, greatly enhanced by life energy. Sadly, no magic can instantly sculpt a wizard into peak health—any fix is a fleeting bandage. The only real path here is hard work and exercise, with magic as a booster, accelerator, and safeguard against injuries or missteps.

  The only training I’ve got is Elven. The fragments’ memories offer complete Elven self-improvement routines, while Dwarven or Human ones boil down to a blunt mantra: “Lift iron! More iron! Lift often! Then grab something heavier and bash the enemy!”

  I spent nearly the whole day pondering magic and dredging my memory’s depths, aiming to recover specific knowledge and spells. I managed a dozen—pathetic, because that’s the ceiling. The rest is too hazy, riddled with gaps in theory and practice, and something tells me I won’t fill them in this life.

  Dinner rolled around, so I joined my parents at the table.

  “Hector,” my father said, finishing his meal, “Professor McGonagall’s coming tomorrow, July twenty-eighth. You remember her, right?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “She’ll take you shopping for school.”

  “Fine.”

  “We arranged with Headmaster Dumbledore to enroll you straight into Hogwarts’ third year,” he continued, “but there’s a catch—you’ll need to catch up on lost time in six months.”

  Father didn’t look thrilled about it.

  “No problem, Father,” I said with a nod, prompting surprised stares from both parents. “I’ve got a perfect memory. If I don’t understand, I’ll just memorize.”

  “That’s incredible,” Mom said with a smile. “Hermione, your sister, has a perfect memory too—though mostly for books…”

  “But still,” Father grumbled, his displeasure creeping in again.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked, trying to pinpoint their unease.

  “Well, how do I put it…” he started. “You’ve just recovered, son. You’ve seen so little, know so little. You haven’t really mingled with kids your age…”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Robert,” Mom cut in, giving him a mild reproachful look.

  “What?” he shot back. “I know what boarding schools are like.”

  “No need to worry,” I said, interrupting their quiet spat with a slight smile. “I’ll pick up social nuances fast.”

  They blinked in unison, clearly thrown by my words. I can responsibly say I grasp their meaning—along with heaps of others in this language—perfectly. Even in my vegetative years, I absorbed plenty through sight and sound, processed by my brain. I’d read and heard enough to wield complex phrasing with confidence.

  “I can handle it,” I assured them with another nod.

  Dinner wrapped up, and I retreated to my room—still plenty to read. The only real bummer is this ancient computer, no internet. With a connection, I could’ve dug up tons of literature to cross-check what’s left in my head from late twentieth-century norms.

  As night crept in, I considered tapping into life energy away from prying eyes but thought better of it. The process might stretch long, and with McGonagall arriving tomorrow for shopping, rushing could backfire. I need to sift through the fragments’ memories more thoroughly. They’re there, organized, but memory’s a tricky beast. Even elven mental tricks can’t just flip through it like a book—you’ve got to spark associative chains and follow where they lead, if anywhere. Sleep might help untangle this mess.

  ---

  In the Grangers’ living room, Robert and Emma sat on the sofa. The TV hummed faintly, volume low. The wall clock’s hands pointed to nearly midnight.

  “I’m not convinced,” Robert said, draping an arm around Emma, “that this school plan’s a good idea.”

  “Don’t fuss so much,” she replied.

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “I’m plenty worried,” Emma admitted, resting her head on his shoulder. “But I also see how absurdly fast he learns. It’s not even been a month, and Hector’s gone from barely speaking, fumbling forks, and grasping nothing, to knowing it all calmly.”

  “True.”

  “He mastered your computer in a day,” she added. “From fumbling the keyboard and those—what’re they called…”

  “I get it,” Robert said, nodding.

  They sat quietly for a minute, watching a late-night show flicker on the screen.

  “That doctor from Hogwarts, Madam Pomfrey,” Emma said, “sent a note with Hector. She highlights his exceptional learning ability—and very high brain activity.”

  “By what percentage?” Robert asked.

  Emma tilted her head, giving him a mock-stern look. “What percentage? You’re the doctor.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “I know the brain’s always 100% active—it’s about simultaneous area engagement. Just those stereotypes… like with taste zones on the tongue.”

  “You mean how different tongue areas supposedly sense different tastes?”

  “Exactly—nonsense from a poorly phrased but valid old study,” he said. “We’re off track. What’d their doctor write?”

  “That with his brain activity so high now, loading Hector with varied tasks is best,” Emma replied. “Diving into a social setting would do him good.”

  “But—”

  “No buts,” she said firmly, punctuating it with a light slap to his chest. “After all these years… I’d love to watch my son, finally growing, every day. But for his sake, we need to curb our selfish urges. Plus, the professor said Muggle-born wizards are legally required to train—by magical law.”

  “Right, or they’d hit us with some perfectly legal spell, and we’d cheerfully ship him off to Hogwarts ourselves,” Robert muttered. “I hate that coercion and helplessness. Where’s the government in all this?”

  “As if ours is spotless,” Emma countered. “And, dear, do you really think the government doesn’t know about wizards?”

  “I just don’t want to force Hector into anything.”

  “Then let’s ask him tomorrow?”

  ---

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