[Time-Skip]
Nine years old.
Another year, another breakthrough. If there was one thing I'd learned from my magical training, it was that discovery often came in the most unexpected ways. And today, I had just stumbled upon something that would redefine the way I used my magic.
For the past few months, I had been refining my Force Palm technique. Initially, it had been a simple, focused burst of magic, useful for repelling objects or breaking things with concentrated energy. But during one of my training sessions, something changed.
Instead of just propelling an object a few inches away, my Force Palm extended beyond its normal range. The energy didn't just dissipate immediately; it lingered, spreading outward like an invisible ripple. When I activated it again with more intent, I realized I could push objects from a distance—not just with a short burst but with an actual controlled wave of force.
I spent hours experimenting with this newfound ability, trying to see just how far I could push things. At first, I could barely get objects a few feet away. But with practice, I managed to launch a chair across the room with a single push.
Then, an idea struck me.
Flying… with a Chair?
I had been sitting on an old wooden chair in the orphanage's storeroom, practicing my magic. On a whim, I activated Force Palm downward while still seated. Instead of just sending the chair flying away from me, the entire chair, with me on it, lifted off the ground.
For a brief, glorious moment, I hovered.
Then, predictably, the magic failed, and gravity decided to remind me of its existence. The chair and I crashed back down, sending dust flying. But I didn't care.
This was game-changing.
For the next few weeks, I dedicated my training to refining this technique. I discovered that as long as I maintained steady bursts of Force Palm beneath the chair, I could keep myself in the air. It wasn't perfect—my control was still shaky, and maintaining balance was a nightmare—but if I could master it?
Flight. Actual flight.
Of course, while flying chairs were exciting, there was another issue I had to deal with: I still didn't have a wand. My real wand, the one from my wishes, was still a few years away. So, naturally, I decided to improvise.
I found a stick from the orphanage yard, roughly the length of a wand. It wasn't anything special, but it was good enough for practice.
The first spell I attempted was Lumos.
The stick snapped in half the moment the magic surged through it.
Not deterred, I searched for another, sturdier branch. After multiple failures (and at least ten more broken sticks), I finally found a strong, solid piece of wood from the old playground treehouse. It held up better, allowing me to practice all the first-year spells I could remember.
By the end of my training, I had gone through over 100 sticks. Some shattered, some burned, and others just stopped working after a while. But each failure taught me something new about how wands functioned as conduits for magic.
Despite all my magical progress, I still had a long way to go with my Sharingan and Occlumency. The Sharingan had been a double-edged sword—while it gave me enhanced perception and magical analysis, it still drained me quickly.
So, I trained harder.
I focused on gradually extending the duration of my Sharingan use while minimizing its strain. I also worked on combining it with Occlumency, layering my mental defenses so that my mind could process the overwhelming influx of visual information without exhausting me.
Over time, I got better. The Sharingan no longer drained me as quickly, and my Occlumency became more refined, allowing me to handle multiple magical tasks at once without losing focus.
Another idea struck me—one that, in hindsight, might have been overly ambitious. If I had infinite memory and magical potential, could I recreate a map of Hogwarts from memory?
Short answer: No.
I tried everything. I sketched out every corridor, every secret passage I could recall from the books and movies. But every time I tried to magically project a full, accurate layout, something went wrong.
Parts of the castle layout were missing. Some rooms seemed to shift. Secret passages I was sure existed refused to appear on my map.
Either my memory was incomplete (unlikely) or Hogwarts itself had magical protections against this kind of foresight.
It was frustrating, but not a total loss. Even if I couldn't map Hogwarts in advance, I knew that once I got there, I could use my Sharingan to memorize every detail in real time.
Beyond magic, I dedicated myself to physical training. My body needed to be as strong as my mind. Push-ups, running, and endurance training became a part of my daily routine. I was no longer just a kid experimenting with magic—I was preparing for something greater.
My stamina improved, my magic control became steadier, and my reflexes sharpened. I combined physical movement with magic, learning how to enhance my agility with Force Palm and use my Sharingan to anticipate movements before they happened.
Every day, I refined my abilities. Every failure was a lesson. Every success brought me one step closer to my goal.
Nine years old, and I had already pushed my magic further than I ever expected. But I still had two more years before Hogwarts.
Two years to refine my abilities.
Two years to master flight.
Two years to prepare for the wizarding world.
One thing was certain: When I arrived at Hogwarts, I wasn't going to be just another student.
I was going to be unstoppable.