One year later, the world still had no idea what it was dealing with.
Ra-One, now fourteen and still looking like a particularly well-fed angel, continued living his dual life with the same shameless efficiency that had already broken several dimensions of common sense.
By day he remained MIT's walking psychological weapon: the chubby-cheeked prodigy who finished his software engineering degree in record time and casually enrolled in second-year electrical engineering as if collecting degrees was a Pokémon hobby. By night he was a trainee sorcerer at Kamar-Taj who treated ancient mystical knowledge the way most people treated free samples at Costco — take everything, then ask for more.
Using the cleaned Voldemort memories, he had systematically completed every Hogwarts subject like a man clearing a particularly nerdy checklist.
Charms? Done.
Defence Against the Dark Arts? Done (with extra notes on how to make the spells funnier).
Potions? Done — and this one got out of hand.
Something about carefully measuring eye of newt and boomslang skin unlocked a previously unknown part of Ra-One's brain. He became a potion fanatic. Within months he had already drafted the business plan for a billion-dollar beauty and skincare empire that would one day make grown women fight in Sephora aisles. He kept the idea quiet for now. The world was not ready.
Alchemy proved more limited. Voldemort's knowledge only went so far, mostly basic transmutation and the philosophical equivalent of "don't turn yourself into a teapot." Still, it sparked a new obsession: metallurgy and blacksmithing. Ra-One started sketching weapon designs in the margins of his MIT notebooks like a medieval blacksmith who had discovered graph paper.
Ancient Runes, however, became his favourite.
After fully understanding the subject, he created something the magical world had never seen: a flying skateboard capable of Mach-1 speeds, complete with a personal friction-and-pressure shield that wrapped around the rider like an invisible force-field hug. He demonstrated it to the Ancient One on a quiet morning above the Himalayas. The Master of the Mystic Arts watched a fourteen-year-old in child form casually break the sound barrier on a piece of enchanted wood and simply said:
"…Interesting."
Wong tried it once.
Wong became addicted.
He begged. He actually begged. Ra-One, feeling generous, created a slower "family-friendly" version with a deliberately ridiculous name — the Mystic Whoosh Board 3000: Now With 40% Less Imminent Death — and gifted one to every trainee. The results were catastrophic for the training schedule. Magical progress tripled. Dozens of students awakened their mystical energy early just so they could ride the boards faster. Kamar-Taj's quiet mountain serenity was permanently ruined by the sound of grown adults screaming "WHOOSH!" across the sky.
Meanwhile, back in the civilian world, technology in this comicised 1990s was already ahead of schedule. Google, Facebook, and YouTube existed. Ra-One was already a quiet, unknown stakeholder in Apple, Google, Amazon, YouTube, and — most amusingly — Stark Enterprises.
He then casually created Twitter (still called Twitter, because he refused to let the name die) and bought several promising graduation projects that would one day become Instagram, WhatsApp, and TikTok. In a single month he made his first public billion. The media immediately resurrected the nickname "Stark 2.0."
Tony Stark saw the headline, frowned at his coffee, and muttered, "Kid's persistent, I'll give him that," before going back to ignoring the existence of children.
SHIELD tried the soft approach as NASA recruiter disguise. They offered NASA internships and vague promises of future Nobel Prize support. Ra-One declined with the same cheerful smile he used when refusing second helpings of broccoli.
"I just want to make money and live a carefree life,"he told the recruiter. "No grand ambitions. No space conquest. No Nobel. Just vibes and stock options."
HYDRA, being HYDRA, decided the soft approach was for cowards.
They planned a classic kidnapping.
One fine evening, Ra-One finished dinner on campus and began his usual post-meal walk toward the Ben & Jerry's near the bridge. Observation Haki had already tagged every single agent a mile out. VIKI had hacked their communications so thoroughly she was currently playing elevator music over their private channel for her own amusement.
The plan was simple: drug the ice cream, grab the kid, vanish.
Ra-One pushed open the door of Ben & Jerry's and immediately locked eyes with the new "employee" behind the counter.
The man was built like a refrigerator that had started lifting weights. Completely bald. Neck thicker than Ra-One's torso. The kind of face that looked like it had lost an argument with a brick wall and then asked for a rematch.
Ra-One's eyes lit up with pure, malicious delight.
He walked up to the counter and began firing questions at machine-gun speed.
"Who are you, old man? Where's Jerry? Why are you so muscular? Did Jerry get replaced by a steroid commercial? Why are you bald? Is the ice cream fresh? Did sweat from your bald head drip into the cookie dough? If I eat your ice cream, will I also become bald and muscular? Is this a package deal? Do I get free protein powder with every scoop? Have you considered hats? Scarves? A small potted plant on your head for camouflage?"
The HYDRA agent's left eye started twitching.
Ra-One continued without mercy.
"I've heard baldness can be caused by stress. Are you stressed? Is it the economy? The job market? The existential horror of serving ice cream while looking like you could bench-press the entire shop? Have you tried onion juice? Castor oil? Rubbing a balloon on your head for static growth? I read somewhere that—"
"DO YOU WANT ICE CREAM OR NOT?!" the agent roared.
Silence.
The agent realised, one second too late, that shouting at the target was not part of the subtle kidnapping plan. He forced his face into the most painful polite smile ever attempted by a human being.
"Sir… apologies for raising my voice. Baldness is… a sensitive topic for me. What flavour would you like?"
Ra-One clutched his chest in Oscar-level terror.
"I was scared, man! I thought you were going to swallow me whole! You really need to control that rage. I understand, though. The economy is tough. Jobs are scarce. Hair is a luxury these days. Have you considered the long-term health benefits of smiling more? Cortisol levels, you know. Also, posture. You're standing like someone who's carrying the weight of a failed coup. And hydration! Bald heads need SPF. Do you moisturise? Because if not—"
Over the comms, the rest of the HYDRA team was dying.
One agent whispered, "Someone shut the kid up before I shoot myself."
Another muttered, "I've killed fourteen people this year and this is somehow worse."
A third was quietly crying.
The bald agent, tears of pure rage and despair forming in his eyes, clasped his hands together like a man praying for death.
"Sir. Thank you for the extreme information. I will keep every single word forever. If you don't mind… please… just order the ice cream. I'm begging you."
Ra-One gave a disappointed snort.
"Young people these days never want to listen to the wisdom of their elders. Fine. I want every single flavour. One scoop each. I'll be at my usual table."
The agent's face lit up with desperate hope. He frantically scooped every flavour onto a giant tray, hands shaking with the need to finally drug this demon child, and walked toward the table with the eager eyes of a man who believed the end was in sight.
Ra-One, without even looking up from examining his nails, silently cast a Slippery Floor Charm on the exact tile the agent was about to step on.
Time slowed.
The massive HYDRA agent's foot hit the charm. His legs shot out in opposite directions. The tray launched upward like a dairy-based rocket. Twenty-seven scoops of ice cream performed a perfect aerial ballet before landing directly on his face in a multi-coloured explosion. He hit the ground with a sound like a refrigerator falling off a truck.
His neck made a noise that necks are not supposed to make.
He did not get up.
Ra-One shot to his feet, arms flailing like a drowning cartoon character, and sprinted toward the exit screaming at the top of his lungs:
"HELP! THE BALD MAN DIED! SOMEBODY HELP THE BALD MAN! HE SLIPPED ON EXISTENCE ITSELF!"
The remaining HYDRA agents stared in pure existential horror as their highest-success-rate team leader died to ice cream and physics. Then they saw the target running away in full dramatic panic mode and snapped into action.
A black van screeched around the corner and gunned straight for the fleeing child.
Ra-One turned left onto the street leading to the bridge, still screaming for help like a Victorian lady who had seen a mouse. The moment he was out of direct line of sight he flicked two fingers.
The wooden bench beside the path transfigured into a full-sized, horned, steam-billowing locomotive that looked like it had escaped from a nightmare version of Thomas the Tank Engine.
The HYDRA van turned the corner at full speed.
What they saw was a demon train blasting toward them with its whistle screaming like the damned.
Every agent's soul left their body at the same time.
The driver yanked the wheel in pure animal terror. The van launched off the side of the bridge in a graceful arc of failure, crashed onto the rocks below, rolled three times, and folded like an expensive metal accordion. Bones became theoretical concepts. No one got up.
Ra-One stood on the bridge, peered over the edge, confirmed the complete absence of surviving life signs, and allowed himself one small, evil smirk.
Then he turned around and hopped back toward campus like an innocent rabbit who had definitely not just orchestrated the most humiliating HYDRA wipeout in recorded history.
Somewhere in the farm Dimension, VIKI updated the mission report:
"Target status: Unharmed.
Enemy status: Converted into abstract art.
Ice cream status: Wasted.
Recommendation: Buy stock in Ben & Jerry's. Tonight was good advertising."
—To Be Continued…