[Time-Skip]
Turning ten was less of a milestone and more of a realization—I had way too much power for a kid my age.
Sure, I couldn't blast through walls or teleport across dimensions (yet), but compared to where I started, I was a different person altogether. My magic had evolved past basic levitation, and my Force Palm technique, once a simple push of energy, had transformed into something so much better.
I had mastered it.
And I had given it a new name: The Force.
Not exactly original, but hey—when you can push things around with your mind, it's a crime not to reference Star Wars.
The Force wasn't just an improved Force Palm; it was an extension of my will. I could control its direction, strength, and even create sustained fields of energy to manipulate objects at a distance. Before, I had to actively push magic into an object to move it, but now, I could hold something mid-air indefinitely as long as I kept my focus. No hands required.
And the best part?
I could fly.
Well… kind of.
Here's the thing about flying with magic—it's not as easy as fanfiction makes it sound. It's not just "think up" and go like some kind of cheat code. Magic, for all its wonders, still follows laws of force and balance. Just throwing energy downward wasn't enough; I needed something to stand on for stability.
At first, my best method of flight was using large, solid objects—a wooden crate, an old chair, even a stolen cafeteria tray (don't ask). The issue? They were all too big and obviously impractical. There was no way I was about to stroll into Hogwarts with a giant wooden slab under my feet like some medieval hoverboard.
So, I experimented.
And after months of trial and error, I found the smallest object I could fly on: a small piece of cardboard.
Just enough to fit both my feet in a line
Theoretically, I could shrink this even further, down to a sheet of A4 paper, but there was a problem—it wasn't strong enough.
Every object had structural limits, and the paper, no matter how much magic I pumped into it, collapsed under my weight the moment I applied force. Even my Sharingan couldn't help me solve the problem; I could see the issue clearly, but I couldn't brute-force my way through physics.
So, I did something insane.
I reinforced the atomic structure of the cardboard.
… Yes, really.
Five months. That's how long it took me to figure out how to use magic to strengthen an object on a molecular level. I focused on compacting the atoms, making the object denser, yet retaining its flexibility. And after weeks of experimenting, it worked.
The reinforced cardboard held my weight, and I could finally hover without a bulky platform.
I was officially a flying ten-year-old.
Flying was cool, but there was another pressing issue—my Sharingan.
The problem wasn't using it. The problem was hiding it.
At this point, I had one tomoe, which meant my eyes still looked mostly normal, except for the bright red glow that made me look like a walking anime protagonist. I couldn't exactly stroll into Hogwarts looking like a budget Uchiha without raising questions.
I spent the next two months developing a magical solution. The goal was simple: hide the red color while keeping the Sharingan active. My attempts went something like this:
Attempt #1: Cast a glamour charm on my eyes.
Result: Didn't work. The Sharingan broke through illusions too easily.
Attempt #5: Enchant my glasses to filter the red out.
Result: Worked for five minutes before the enchantment overloaded.
Attempt #12: Use Occlumency to 'trick' people's perception.
Result: Promising, but mentally exhausting to maintain.
Finally, I found the best solution: a combination of magic and perception manipulation.
Instead of completely erasing the Sharingan's effects, I altered my own magical signature, making the red fade into black. The result? My tomoe blended into my natural iris, making it invisible at a glance. If someone looked closely, though, they'd notice a small, black dot rotating in my eye.
It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough.
Now, this was where things got insane.
I had been using Occlumency to shield my mind and Sharingan to analyze everything, but there was always a disconnect. My mental defenses were like a solid fortress, strong but rigid.
Then, I realized something crucial—rigidity was a weakness.
A fixed shield can be broken, but a constantly shifting, evolving barrier? Much harder to penetrate.
Using my Sharingan, I experimented with changing my Occlumency shields in real time, keeping them in constant motion, shifting defenses based on external stimuli.
I turned my mind into an ever-adapting labyrinth, a system that allowed me to simultaneously protect my thoughts while absorbing new information through controlled gaps.
It was like processing information in real-time without ever lowering my defenses.(In monkey terms)
With this, my Occlumency and Sharingan finally worked in perfect harmony—allowing me to use both at full strength without compromising mental stability.
[Time-Skip 3 months]
After months of refining my skills, my time in the orphanage was coming to a close. I was finally eleven years old, and in just six months, the Hogwarts letter would arrive.
The excitement was unreal.
I had spent years preparing, pushing my limits, and refining my magic to levels no first-year student should have.
I had conquered flight, mastered The Force, learned to hide the Sharingan, and transformed my Occlumency into an evolving fortress.
The real test was coming soon.
Six more months.
And when I walked into Hogwarts, I wasn't just going to be a student.
I was going to be a legend.