I'm not wholly sure I have the right vocabulary to explain the differences that came over me when I changed from being a Ron to a Harry.

In many ways, and from a certain point of view, there were very few changes indeed. I still had the same channels, my more tightly concentrated Qi flowed around them in the same pattern, and there were still a whole host of things that I could do that would make the average human's eyes pop out. I did not grow six feet tall, I did not develop the ability to fly, nor did my intelligence skyrocket. Neither did a shaggy, friendly giant turn up and give me my own wand.

So, yeah. All hail the new boss. Same as the old boss.

On the other hand, though, the change was so deep and so profound that it was like trying to compare Roger Moore to Timothy Dalton. Sure, they were both technically James Bond, but then so was Woody Allen and that way, insanity lies.

In every way - and I mean in every way - I was . . . just better.

Right at the end of The Matrix - and such is the colossal deluge of shite that is all of its sequels that I will fight to death for it to be known as the only Matrix movie - Neo stands in front of various Agents and is just the man. It's where he sees everything in code, and you know the smackdown is coming.

That's how I felt at this moment.

My dear, what is really important right now is that you recognise you are experiencing a post-threshold high. You will feel like there is nothing you cannot accomplish and that all of humanity is beneath you.

"Dude, I know Kung Fu," was about the most lucid thing I could say.

Ah, you see! That's exactly what I mean. You most certainly do not 'know' Kung Fu. You are, however, entirely secure in your confidence that - should you wish to attempt to - you could know everything about Kung Fu. And, to a certain extent, my dear, you are right to think so.

I looked around at the Shriket's pocket dimension. With its death and my claiming all its Qi, the world was already collapsing down into itself. I couldn't see Owain, but those of his entourage who still lived had been freed from their spikes.

"Mate, get those out to who needs them," I said, shooting a couple of handfuls of Rare quality Elixirs of Wellness to Lancelot. I paused and added in an Epic one. "That's for Owain."

"Sure," Lancelot was looking at me with concern in his eyes. "Okay, are you? Maggot food for sure, I thought."

I put my hand on my chest where the giant claws had pierced straight through me. There was no hint of soreness. My rebuilt armour had taken on a deep red colour where it covered the wound.

On top of all that Qi, you have also assimilated a considerable volume of blood, my dear. As well as more mundane liquid, I note the presence of some reasonably exotic creatures in that . . . larder. I would expect that to awaken any number of unusual abilities. I am actually quite jealous!

As I turned my head, I became aware of little spindly lines that reached out from me to the other people, the ground, the trees . . . basically, to everything. "What's with all the strings, Big M?"

Ah, excellent. I was hoping that would fire for you reasonably quickly. As a . . . as a Harry, you are now more profoundly connected to the world than you were previously. What you can see are the threads of fate that bind you to all things.

"There's a thread of fate that binds me to that snail, is there?"

Induitably. Should you decide to crush it, you will gather up not just its Qi, but you will now have access to all the impact it would have had on the world. All the lettuce it would chew, all the slime trails, all of it will become part of your story.

"That's epically sinister, mate. You're saying if I were to kill everyone in this clearing, I would gain not just their Qi but also suck down the power from all their future actions?"

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Absolutely. Tasty stuff. You should, however, avoid saying such things out loud. It tends to make allies a touch nervous.

Everyone was staring at me with abject terror on their faces.

I imagined how I must look to them—a blood-soaked, resurrected wizard discussing murdering them with her imaginary friend. I wish I could say this was the worst first impression I'd made on new people.

"Don't mind me. You keep drinking the very rare and expensive health potions I'm dolling out like candy."

The spearmen returned to work helping the rest of Owain's men off their trees and calming the surviving horses.

A word from the wise, my dear. Try not to get a name for yourself as a Lich—the decades I spent trying to live that down.

"Noted."

To avoid any further misunderstandings, I dropped into my Artist's Studio, which I could tell had received a subtle yet significant upgrade. I was used to encountering a blank page when I first manifested here, which I could flick to check on the Vitruvian version of me - with all my channels on display - and then a second page for my inventory, with the new one that had recently appeared for all my alchemy.

Now, however, the first thing I entered was a genuine Artist's Studio, like the one I always assumed I'd one day own. Or, more realistically, the one I'd break into when its owners were abroad and act like it was actually mine.

It was perfect in every detail to the place of my dreams. From the massive French windows looking out over the sea to the rows of easels waiting to be selected and used. Blank canvases were stacked against the one wall, with a host of unfinished and 'in progress' images mixed in with them. They were all by me, I was shocked to see.

On the opposite corner was a single sofa bed with a duvet carelessly thrown over it. It was the comfiest-looking thing I'd ever seen in either of my lives. Everywhere I looked was example after example of something I'd ever owned - or, more truthfully, coveted - arranged to create my perfect living space.

"What is this place?" I whispered.

The answer is both complexly psychological and reasonably straightforward. This is your—in the crudest of vernacular—' happy place'. Other religions may speak of Heaven, Nirvana, or the like, but this is your own personal version. What does it look like?

"Can't you see it?"

I'm afraid not, my dear. I am seeing my own, much missed, version. It is my dearest hope that . . . that when I died, my spirit - the rest of it anyway - simply slipped into a permanent residence here. I wonder if I even know I am dead?

We spent a few moments in silence before Merlin spoke again.

All the functions you are used to accessing will be available here. I cannot be too specific, but you should find it to be fairly intuitive.

"Like Apple products?"

Don't ruin the moment, my dear.

It took me no time to realise that the exposed copper piping running around the room were not just a charmingly rustic heating system but also accurately reflected the current state of my channels. Don't ask me how I knew that; I just did.

Likewise, on the shelf amongst a fairly definitive version of the collected works of Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, and Tom Holt was a giant, leatherbound book called 'Inventory', another called 'Alchemy' and a new one called 'Techniques'.

I found I didn't need to do anything so mundane as actually go across the floor to collect one; just thinking about it was enough for it to be in my hand and open. The 'Techniques' book was a little short on info at the moment . . .

Not for much longer, my dear. My techniques were so numerous that I had to open a separate wing of my Mental Palace just to store the tomes.

"Mental Palace, Big M?" I smirked, looking around this perfect single room. "I doubt I'll ever need anything bigger than this."

You say that now, my dear. But Harry is the first proper step on a long journey. Should you progress as I would anticipate, you will be surprised at the changes you will need to make to your perspective.

That suddenly brought my mood down. "As soon as we stabilise the timeline, mate, I'm out of here. Zizzie and I have a lot of making up to do."

As you say, my dear. As you say.

There was a pause, and then he spoke in a more business-like voice. There are a few last things that I should point out. Firstly, time dilation here is pretty spectacular. It's not quite 'drop-in, spend a year working out how to solve a problem, and then pop out, and it is the same moment,' but it is not too far away from that. You'll be able to get out of most problems if you keep your wits about you. Secondly, cycling here is much more efficient than doing it anywhere else. I'd recommend spending at least a few hours a day here - which will, in reality, be more like mere seconds.

"That seems a bit cheat-codey, Big M."

Cultivation, my dear. The strong get stronger.

"Cool beans. And what about a visitor's policy? I'm assuming this is strictly a 'no boys allowed' kind of thing?"

My dear, if you can work out how to get someone here and make them stay sane, you're welcome to it. I wouldn't recommend it, though. It's taken you a considerable amount of work to get this far. Think how alien it would be to the unwary.

I popped out into real-time.

No one was paying much attention to me anymore. Or at least they were all so terrified I was going to kill them that they didn't want to make eye contact and volunteer to be first. So I bent down and picked up Drynwyn.

You fucking made it through then?

"Just about. Thanks to you, I think."

I then did something I never thought I would ever do in my life. I hugged a sword.