The next two weeks were a blur of motion, heat, sweat, and the occasional humiliation. Every morning began the same: flame training with Aunt Aster. Ignite the candles perfectly, over and over again. Each time I hesitated or broke focus—Aster's response was the same. "Again." No scolding. No soft lectures. Just relentless repetition, like a smith reforging steel.
Just when I started getting use to control the flame power and precision, she would change the method in some small way either moving the candles around or making use a certain flame on a certain candle. By midday, my mother swept in—sometimes literally—with a tray of steaming herb-laced potions or a handful of glowing vials and ingredients for Alchemy.
"This," she'd say, dropping a shimmery root in my hand, "will explode if you insult it with bad stir technique or wrong heating temperature." I believed her. After hours of potion making and theory drills, just when I thought I might get a break, my mother would drag me off for boxing, wrestling, or swimming lessons—sometimes all three.
At first, I appreciated the break from magical pressure. Until she knocked me flat on my back with a charmed sparring dummy sometimes she would do it herself. I would fall unconscious multiple times just for her to wake me up for and clap her hands with that perfectly sweet tone and say, "Keep your guard up, son."
She did it again later while I was changing again while I was eating. After the third time, I never let my guard down around her again. Ever.
Evenings were my own.
Quiet time. Mental reset. Or at least, that's what I told myself while casting Invisible Wall over and over until my fingers twitched and my vision blurred. But the progress was real.
> Spell Proficiency: [Invisible Wall] – Novice (40%)
Telekinesis – Intermediate (70%)
Wandless Magic Affinity – Intermediate (75%)
White Flame – Novice (35%)
Gold Flame – Novice (35%)
Black Flame – Novice (10%)
The Black Flame still refused to budge.
No matter how hard I pushed, meditated, or tried to replicate the awakening that had melted an entire training hall—including my parents' clothes—it wouldn't respond. Dormant. Watching waiting I decided to leave it alone… for now.
Two more weeks passed like that and then, it happened. I had just finished my evening shower, towel around my neck, fresh robes hanging loosely over my frame when I heard my parents call me to the living room.
Their voices weren't urgent. But there was an energy in them. When I stepped out of the hallway and into the glow of the high-arched, chandelier-lit sitting room, I saw him. Messy brown hair. Round glasses. Green eyes. Clothes two sizes too big. A suitcase by his side. Wide eyes like he'd walked into a dream he hadn't asked for.
Harry Potter. He looked exactly how I remembered—like a boy who had never been told he was allowed to be anything special. Standing small beneath the weight of what he didn't yet know. His eyes darted across the room, looking at the floating candles, the self-shuffling bookshelves, the magical sigils etched subtly into the floors.
And then they landed on me.
I smiled. "Hello, Harry," I said, stepping forward. "It's nice to meet you." He blinked, almost startled by the attention. "Welcome to our home." Then I added, trying not to cringe as the words slipped out, "Or should I say… your new home."
Mom and dad beamed proudly. My dad winked. Harry's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. I stepped closer, suppressing a laugh that was more nerves than humor. I couldn't resist.
In my best modest tone I said: "You're a wizard, Harry."
Harry blinked at me. "I'm a what?" he said. I said your a wizard coming from a long line of wizards I believe from your father side and you mom was the first generation in her family (I said feeling like Harmonie.) I said yes they were Wizard and then I gestured to my parents then they waved their hands. Then at the fireplace, where golden-blue flame curled lazily in patterns that danced like living art.
His voice, small but steady, finally emerged. "… I cant believe this is real." My mom knelt beside him, gently helping him remove his oversized coat. My father gripped his shoulder softly. "Well, it is. And now you're safe."
And I stood there, watching the boy who lived begin to smile. Let's see how far we can go As soon as the last word entered my mind I heard the chime. AIA's voice echoed softly inside my mind, still in silent mode but pushing the update front and center.
> [Quest Update: Influence Harry Potter's Life for the Better]
Progress: 5% Complete
Milestone Unlocked: Emotional Stability Support / Safe Environment Established
I smirked to myself only 5 percent? Just wait. Over the next few hours, so much happened I could barely keep track of it all. My mom took over like the queen of the manor she was—elegant, warm, but impossibly sharp. She guided Harry to the couch beside the fireplace, handed him warm cocoa (enchanted to never scald), and sat across from him with her classic grace.
"I want you to understand something very important, Harry," she said gently. "You are not alone. And you were never meant to be." His eyes were wide, filled with cautious hope. She continued, her voice clear but gentle. "I am your godmother. Lily and I were close at Hogwarts. Different houses, but closer than sisters by blood."
She told him just enough—about the Wizarding World, about magic, Hogwarts, wands, the Ministry. She wove truth into each sentence, wrapped in kindness and clarity, speaking to him like someone who believed he could understand. Because he could but not to much for a 9 year old Harry asked questions, of course.
"Why did I have to live with the Dursleys?"
"What happened to my parents?"
"Why does everyone say I'm famous?"
Mom (Samira) answered with poise and power, never flinching.
She told him the real story of the night Voldemort came who he was. How Lily and James chose to protect him. How his mother's magic of love saved his life. How the wizarding world saw him not as a child but as a symbol.
She even touched on Sirius Black. "He was your godfather," she said softly. "Brilliant, bold, stubborn. A lot of things… but a good man, number one." They believed he betrayed your parents and killed another one of your fathers friends along with a bunch of regular people or muggles as the British Wizards call them. Harry looked surprised "but why would he do that?"
My mother looked serene putting a hand on his cheek saying I known that man since we were children he was always a good person sometime he would do stupid things. But he would never betray your father who was like a brother to him but trust me I believe he is innocent
Harry's eyes glistened. "I believe he's innocent," she said. "But the British magical justice system is… broken." She paused, looking almost disgusted. Then smiled again. "But that's a conversation for another day. Right now, what you need is food."
She stood and waved her hand. From the kitchen came the unmistakable sounds of pans flipping, oil sizzling, and ingredients humming through the air. Dishes flew across the dining table, setting themselves in perfect rows. The air filled with spice, warmth, and enchantment.
While she worked her spell craft kitchen miracles, I turned to Dad. "Sirius Black," I whispered. "What's the whole story?" He gave me a look with curiosity. Then he told me everything. The Potters. The Fidelius Charm. The betrayal. The bodies. The alley. The laughter. The wand fragments. The sentence without trial.
All of it matched what I already knew from the books. And yet… hearing it spoken aloud by someone real made it hit harder. It felt more unjust. More cruel. More… unfinished. I nodded slowly, already scheming. Peter Pettigrew. Wormtail. The rat.
He's still alive. But how could I expose him without raising questions about how I knew? Maybe fake clairvoyance? Claim to have a magical vision? Or link it to my family's flame-based magic? That's a problem for another day.
I have to be careful a lot of things are changing and the more things change he more harder it is to navigate from what I already know. I could end up creating a worse future or getting people killed that were meant to live. Then I thought to myself then what was the point of getting stronger or even coming to this world if I wasn't going to change things for the better where's the adventure in all that?
Then, my father nudged me while I was mid thought. "Why don't you show Harry around?" "Right," I nodded. "C'mon, Harry." I led him through the manor, pointing out enchanted portraits that changed depending on the time of day, talking ceilings that whispered poetry in Amharic, and walls that shifted their paintings depending on your mood. "Is this whole place… enchanted?" he asked, awestruck.
"Think of it like a Doctor Who thing," I said. He blinked. "Doctor… what?" I winced. "Forget I said that. Let's move on." I showed him the greenhouse, the small dueling platform, the meditation atrium, and even a few toys and gadgets my Aunt Aster had given me—illusion marbles, a floating compass, and a fox-shaped rune creature that purred when Harry got close.
He laughed. Really laughed. And it warmed something in me I hadn't realized had gone cold. Later, we were called back to the dining room. What we saw made Harry freeze in place.
The table had been transformed into a feast worthy of a royal court—glazed chicken, spiced rice, layered stews, honeybread, charmed butter, grilled vegetables dancing in their own steam. And at the head of the table floated nine birthday cakes—each small, round, glowing gently in the air.
My mother walked over to Harry and knelt down beside him. "Close your eyes, Harry." He hesitated. But then did it.
"One… two… three."
His eyes opened.
The cakes sparkled.
The flames danced.
The cakes began to sing.
A soft, melodic version of "Happy Birthday" echoed through the room as the cakes circled him in gentle flight. Harry's eyes shimmer with wonder. Pure, childlike wonder. But it's not my birthday for another two months but my mom stopped him saying this is to make up for the birthdays you missed.
He smiled. A real smile and when he blew out all the candles, each extinguished flame triggered a glowing present to appear to the side. Nine in total—one for each candle.
My mother clapped. "Happy Birthday, Harry." Then with a wink: "Now let's eat.".
The house was quiet.
Harry had crashed hours ago, finally surrendering to exhaustion after a day filled with more magic than most Muggles ever saw in a lifetime. He barely made it through the last bite of dessert before nodding off at the table. My mom had carried him to his new room—just down the hall from mine, with starlight charm windows and his favorite cake preserved for later.
I, on the other hand, couldn't rest too much energy and thoughts in my head. And one spell I was determined to strengthen before I let myself sleep. I stood in the center of my room, floor cleared, breathing steady.
Both palms out, focus sharp. "Invisible Wall." The shimmer appeared before me—not vertically like before, but horizontal, floating about three feet off the ground. I held my breath and tested it by slowly placing a foot on it.
It held I shifted my weight, then fully stood on It trembled… but stayed. Then I sat.
Still intact.
A slow grin spread across my face. "Okay," I whispered. "Let's see how long you last." The wall floated under me like a hoverboard from my childhood dreams. The mana threading through it buzzed faintly under my skin, reminding me this wasn't just magical tech—it was my will given form.
I sat cross-legged, eyes closed, letting the wall float beneath me like a platform of light and intent.
One minute.
Three.
Five.
That's when the sweat started. My focus wavered. The energy drain picked up fast—like holding a stretched-out muscle past its limit. At five and a half minutes, the wall flickered. At six, it shattered like mist, and I dropped gently back to the floor, breathing heavy but grinning through it.
"Not bad," I muttered, brushing my palms together. I sat down where the wall had been, legs crossed, and closed my eyes.
Time to recharge I took a deep breath in and focused, allowing the magic to flow into my body and gather to my core. I didn't like calling it "magical energy" anymore. It sounded too academic. From now on, I'd call it what it really was—Mana.
The raw essence inside me. The fuel of everything I could do… and everything I would become.
Downstairs…
The Manor was quiet.
The fires had dimmed. The floating candles above the dining hall extinguished themselves in a soft wave of light. All the wards around the perimeter shimmered like a sleeping beast—powerful but at ease.
Until… Knock. Knock. Knock. Samira opened her eyes from where she sat in the study, sensing the magical pulse before the sound even reached her ears. Desmond, was already standing beside her, wand in hand—casual, but prepared.
They walked together to the grand entry hall. The lights there didn't flicker. They bowed—recognizing the power outside the door. Samira opened it with a casual wave of her fingers. Two figures stood beyond the threshold, lit by the moon and the quiet hum of their own power. One was tall, bearded, robed in deep sapphire and midnight silver, his presence dignified but watchful.
The other was sharp-eyed, severe-faced, yet carrying the air of someone who had once known joy and buried it too deep for daily use. Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall. Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles glinted with the soft light of the enchantments surrounding the Dawn estate. His eyes, ancient and blue, sparkled with curiosity.
He inclined his head politely.
"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Dawn," he said. "May we come in?" He paused, then added. "We need to talk… about Harry Potter."