The book's final line was simple. Bold.
"I am Iron Man."
And then, everything exploded—at least, metaphorically.
Rumors flew through the magical world like enchanted owls on a sugar rush. In the Muggle world, my father's letterbox overflowed with interview requests. Conspiracy theorists scribbled essays and filmed grainy videos, swearing Iron Man was real—hiding in plain sight. Some claimed they'd seen him soaring over the Welsh hills or leaving scorched footprints on London rooftops.
Even Diagon Alley caught the fever. A shopkeeper set up a stall, selling shiny "Iron Man amulets" that supposedly shielded you from dark curses. They sold out in a day.
That evening, as the sun set over the manor and rumors still swirled in both worlds, Grandpa Alistair leaned back in his armchair, a twinkle in his eye. He looked over at my father, who was pretending to read the Daily Prophet.
"So… are you Iron Man?" Grandpa asked, raising an amused eyebrow.
Papa smiled, glancing at me with unmistakable pride. "In my son's imagination—and, it seems, in a few others'," he replied.
I beamed. In that moment, my dad really was a hero, at least to me.
But the attention was overwhelming. I was still just a kid—even if I didn't always feel like one.
Grandpa made the decision for me.
"No more novels for now, Eliot. You've stirred the pot enough," he said, handing me a thick, ancient-looking tome.
Standard Book of Runes – Year 1 through 5.
"This," he declared, "is what you focus on now."
That's when he told me about Hogwarts.
A school for magic. A castle full of secrets. Classes on Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, and—most importantly—Ancient Runes.
Something clicked in my head. Suddenly, I remembered everything: Harry, Voldemort, Dumbledore, Snape, the Triwizard Tournament. All those late-night binge sessions, the memes, the theories—I knew how this world played out. Or at least, how it was supposed to.
"The real story starts in my fifth year," I whispered to myself. "That's when the chaos begins."
But I wasn't going to wait for chaos.
Runes fascinated me. They felt like the alphabets of the magical world—building blocks, like logic gates. And alchemy? That was programming with elements. If I could combine magic and engineering, who needed a wand to change the world?
So, I got to work.
With Grandpa's help, I took a handful of ordinary AA batteries and enchanted them, compressing and expanding their storage until they held a hundred times their usual charge. The result? A Magic Battery.
"Still technically Muggle tech," Grandpa muttered, examining my prototype. "But enchanted. Clever."
Using those batteries and a series of runic circuits, I built my first alchemical device:
The Air Controller—a compact unit that could cool or heat an entire room with almost no magical drain.
Grandpa was impressed. Within a week, he had a magical company registered under the Clarke family name, launching our invention in both the Muggle and magical markets.
"DHD Inventions"
From the mind of DSK the Author… comes DHD the Inventor.
The dual identity made me grin. I'd gone from writing Iron Man to becoming him, in my own way.
And then the money started rolling in—gold, galleons, Muggle cash, royalties, and orders piling up faster than I could count.
"How are we manufacturing this?" I asked one evening, watching Grandpa sip his firewhisky.
He just smirked. "House-elves. Efficient, tireless, and loyal."
I'd read about house-elves, but now I was curious.
"Grandpa, what exactly is a house-elf?"
He explained: servants bound to wizarding families, gifted with powerful magic, often treated as lesser beings.
When he finished, he looked at me, expecting pity or guilt. But I had a different question.
"If they represent our family status… why do they wear rags?"
He blinked. "What?"
"If they serve the Clarke name, then make them look the part. Tailored uniforms. Suits. Dresses. Like butlers and maids in noble houses. I don't want anyone thinking we're too poor to give our elves proper clothes."
Grandpa stared at me for a long moment. For once, he had no words—not because he was angry, but because he realized I was thinking on a level even he hadn't expected.
That night, he summoned the elves.
The next morning, when I walked into the manor, they wore fitted waistcoats, polished shoes, and little crests stitched with the Clarke family sigil. They bowed as I passed, but this time, there was pride in their eyes.
My life was changing. My identity was evolving.
From overworked coder to noble heir.
From fanboy to bestselling author.
From dreamer to inventor.
But I knew the real story hadn't begun yet.
That would happen the day I stepped through the gates of Hogwarts.
And I would be ready.