Growing Control

The memory of his dream burned in his mind, each detail etched into his thoughts with perfect clarity. He had seen it, smelled it, and felt the magic thrumming in the air.

Then there was Gringotts, its impossible architecture looming in his vision, pulling at something deep inside him.

He knew it was real.

Magic existed, and he was a part of it. The lightbulbs bursting hadn't been a coincidence. It had been him. The realization sent a thrill through him, but it was quickly followed by an unsettling weight in his stomach.

He had no control over it.

If it had happened once, could it happen again?

Could he make it happen again?

The idea consumed him. He had spent his whole life powerless, at the mercy of the Dursleys, but now, there was something inside him, something that was his. He had to understand it.

The next morning, the house was as tense as ever. Petunia had been skittish since the lightbulb incident, watching him as if he might explode at any moment. Vernon, on the other hand, had made his feelings clear the night before.

"I won't have any of that—" Vernon's face had turned purple as he glared down at him, gripping the back of Harry's shirt with meaty fingers. "None of that unnatural nonsense in my house, you hear me, boy?"

Harry had nodded silently, knowing anything else would make it worse.

Now, as he placed a plate of eggs in front of Dudley, he could feel his uncle's eyes lingering on him.

"Make sure he doesn't leave his cupboard unless it's for chores," Vernon muttered to Petunia between mouthfuls of bacon.

Petunia only nodded, still wringing her hands.

Dudley, blissfully unaware of any tension, stuffed another forkful of food into his mouth and glanced at Harry with a smirk. "Bet you're scared, freak," he taunted through a mouthful of eggs.

Harry didn't react. He never did. That only made Dudley lose interest faster.

But just as he turned back to his food, Dudley snorted and added, "Bet you're gonna end up in a loony bin one day. Just like your parents."

Normally, that would have stung. It would have curled inside him like a slow-burning ember, something he would try to bury and ignore.

But today, the words bounced off him like pebbles skimming across a pond.

Because Dudley didn't know. He didn't know.

Harry had magic. He was different, but not in the way the Dursleys had always wanted him to believe.

For the first time, when Dudley sneered at him, Harry just felt sorry for him.

Dudley would never know what it felt like to make something move with just a thought. He would never feel that electric pulse beneath his skin, that quiet power whispering from the edges of his mind.

Harry swallowed back a smirk, picking up the empty plates to take to the sink. Let Dudley think whatever he wanted.

Petunia sent him to the garden to pull weeds after breakfast, and as he worked, his mind was elsewhere. The thought of magic curled inside him, growing more insistent with each passing moment.

If it had happened once, he could make it happen again. He just had to figure out how.

That night, when the house had gone quiet and only the faint sound of Vernon's snoring rumbled through the floorboards, Harry lay awake in his cupboard.

A loose button sat in his palm, cool against his skin. He stared at it, willing something to happen.

Nothing.

He squeezed his eyes shut, frustration curling in his chest. He knew it was real. He knew he could do it. But no matter how hard he tried, the button remained still.

The next night, he tried again. And again.

Nothing.

By the third night, exhaustion dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts. Instead of straining, instead of forcing it, he let his focus drift.

He was not reaching for something he could not see. Instead, he simply let himself feel.

The memory of his dream, the way magic had flowed in the air, how it had felt like an extension of himself, settled over him like a warm blanket.

The button trembled.

Harry sucked in a breath. Had he imagined it?

He focused again, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The button twitched, spinning slightly before coming to a rest.

A rush of exhilaration shot through him.

It was real.

The next morning, Harry went about his chores as if nothing had changed, but inside, he was buzzing. He spent every spare moment afterward testing himself.

Most attempts failed, but now and then, something shifted. A scrap of paper fluttered without a breeze. A bottle cap flipped onto its side.

Once, just before drifting off to sleep, he thought he saw the faintest flicker of light at his fingertips, but when he blinked, it was gone.

It was slow and unpredictable, but it was happening.

He was doing magic.

That night, as he finally closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under, another dream took hold.

He stood in a vast library, the musty scent of paper and old ink thick in the air. The shelves stretched endlessly around him, their dark wood worn with age. A strange stillness filled the space as if it had been waiting for him.

Somewhere between the shelves, something moved.

Harry couldn't see their face, only a small figure with brown bushy hair running a hand along the spines of the books, scanning each title with careful intent.

He stepped forward, drawn to them, the floor creaking softly beneath him. The figure hesitated for a brief moment before continuing their search.

Something about them felt important.

Harry parted his lips to speak, but before he could, the dream fractured. The warmth of candlelight flickered and died, the towering bookshelves dissolved into shadows, and the scent of parchment faded into nothingness.

He woke abruptly, the familiar walls of his cupboard closing in around him.

His dreams were not ordinary. He was sure of that now. The first had led him to discover magic.

This one…

He didn't know what it meant yet.

But he would find out.