Chapter- 16 : Strategy Part - 4
————————————
IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE BY 25+ ADVANCED CHAPTERS YOU CAN DO IT BY GOING TO
(P).(A).(T).(R).(E).(O).(N)
patreon.com/BLAKE014
————————————
1:07 AM.
He rolled off the bed, grabbed his wand, and tiptoed out the front door. Then he paused for a moment, thinking.
He didn't want to go too far from the safety of the house. Not that he was really worried about his ability to defend himself from a muggle mugger, but the whole idea behind this affair was to not get himself brought up on improper use of magic charges.
On the other hand, the neighbourhood around Privet Drive was undoubtedly one of the safer suburbs, and he was leery of making his first attempt at deliberate uncontrolled magic on his aunt and uncle's front lawn. He really, really, didn't want to wake them if noise occurred, and in plain sight of half a dozen muggle houses, minimum, was probably not the best place to work magic.
The park it is, then.
It was a short walk, no more than ten minutes, and it proved to be thankfully deserted. He settled down in a small alcove in the bushes. There, shielded from sight on three sides, he tried to figure out how to not only call his magic up, but to let it slip its leash enough to manifest. The opposite, after two years of Hogwarts studies, was second nature. Figuring out exactly how to reverse it would require some fumbling.
Twenty minutes later he tossed away the stone he'd been focusing on in disgust.
That had been splendidly unsuccessful.
What am I missing?
One hand twisted strands of grass together as he thought. Hadn't Dumbledore said something about it normally happening in times of strong emotion? He hadn't mandated exactly which emotion, but the only one that had worked for Harry so far appeared to be anger. It's worth a try, anyway.
He snapped off a branch from the bush beside him, and set it on the grass to give him something to focus on. Then, feeling somewhat reluctant, he closed his eyes and summoned images to the fore. Lucius Malfoy's sneering face, Hermione's petrified body, Riddle's taunting voice, the horror of knowing he had no choice, Ginny's death, Ron's pain, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's betrayed looks – he took his anger and he fed it his guilt and his horror and his pain, transforming fear and grief into tongues of fire that licked at his self-control. Distantly, he heard the brush around him rustle, as if a gust had come up, but only distantly. Higher and higher he built it, till anger flared to fury. Then he opened his eyes, and focused it all on the twig in front of him.
The wood exploded, splinters flying everywhere.
He flung his hands up as he turned his face away, but he wasn't quite quick enough to shield himself from the flying wooden shrapnel. He felt a sharp sting as a larger piece sliced his cheek as it flew by, and he hissed in pain as smaller splinters peppered his hands and forearms. After a few seconds of stillness, he slowly brought his hands down, wincing as he looked at himself.
Dumbledore could have mentioned that when he said uncontrolled magic was dangerous, he'd meant to both the target and the caster!
Alternating swearing, wincing, and hissing, he slowly started to pull splinters out. When he was finished, there were small beads of blood across his hands and arms, and he was becoming somewhat dubious about the project.
He definitely needed to try this another way.
First, because that had made him feel sick. Creating that much hatred and rage… he shuddered. He wasn't entirely comfortable knowing he could feel like that, and he didn't want to feel it too often. Certainly not when he was only trying to rattle the Dursleys! Besides, it felt like he was using his friends' pain, exploiting it. He could do that if he had to – would do it, if necessary – but pulling that out for what would be parlor tricks with his wand just felt like he was demeaning both them and himself.
Besides, he reflected wryly, that wasn't exactly what I'd hoped for.
He wasn't, after all, trying to kill his aunt and uncle. Nor was he trying to break their stuff, (although a small, dark part of him idly wished he could). All that would do is make his uncle more difficult. No, what he was going for was, what had Dumbledore called it? The secondary manifestations of primary magical phenomena. The flickering lights, the sudden breeze – not at all dangerous, but to a family who loathed his kind, positively unnerving.
Rage, it seemed, was more likely to make his magic try to incinerate them.
Usually strong emotion implied not always. Maybe emotion just made it easier? He closed his eyes again and tried to recall exactly what it had felt like, not emotionally, but with his magic. But as much as he sought back to that moment, he couldn't remember anything but the rage. He grimaced, raising a hand to tentatively probe the small cut on his cheek. All of which meant that, if he wasn't giving up on his idea, he'd have to try again.
But this time, definitely without the stick.
————————————
IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE BY 25+ ADVANCED CHAPTERS YOU CAN DO IT BY GOING TO
(P).(A).(T).(R).(E).(O).(N)
patreon.com/BLAKE014
————————————