Chapter Ten – Sparks in the Dark

Harry couldn't stop smiling.

His feet slapped lightly against the pavement as he half-walked, half-skipped down the lane from school. His bag bounced with each step, the cold wind brushing against his face, but he barely noticed. The thoughts tumbling through his head drowned out everything else.

I'm a wizard, he thought, giddy. Like... Merlin. Yeah. Merlin the wizard.

He held out his hand, palm upward, and focused just like Jonathan had taught him. A flicker of warmth stirred in his chest. A second later, a soft shimmer lit up his skin—a quiet little flame dancing just above his palm.

Brighter than before.

Harry's eyes widened. The glow wasn't just stronger, it felt steadier, warmer, more… comfortable.

It's working again, he thought, wonderingly. And I'm not scared this time. I'm happy. Maybe that's why.

He clutched his school bag tighter. I've got to tell John tomorrow. He's going to flip.

But as Privet Drive came into view, that glow of warmth began to dim. His smile faltered. The light in his hand vanished, snuffed out by the cold feeling that always hit him when he came back here.

Don't let them see anything, he reminded himself grimly. They already hate me. If they see I can do magic—real magic—they might…

He shuddered.

They'd probably lock me in a cage. Or worse, burn me like witches from the old stories. I bet Uncle Vernon has a pitchfork somewhere in the garage.

He slowed as he reached the front garden. The door opened before he could even knock.

Aunt Petunia stood there, thin and stiff as a broomstick, lips curled into a frown. Her arms were crossed, her eyes narrow like a chihuahua guarding its territory.

"You're late," she snapped. "Get inside and do your chores."

Harry gulped. "Y-yes, Aunt Petunia."

He slipped inside. No shouting from Uncle Vernon—yet. That was a relief. Maybe she hadn't seen anything. Maybe he'd gotten away with it.

He busied himself with dishes, then vacuuming, then straightening the living room while Dudley sat on the couch like a pudding in a tracksuit, tossing popcorn at the television. By the time the clock struck seven, Petunia's shrill voice rang through the hall again.

"No dinner. That's what you get for dawdling. Cupboard. Now."

Harry didn't argue. He never did.

He just nodded, trudged down the hall, and crawled into the cupboard under the stairs. The door clicked shut behind him. The lock slid into place with a cruel sense of finality.

Inside, it was dark and cramped. The air was stale and faintly smelled of cleaning solution and damp socks. He curled up beneath the blanket Dudley had once used as a baby and tried to sleep.

His stomach growled.

Great, he thought, sighing. No dinner, again. Figures.

He rolled over, trying to ignore the ache in his belly, but sleep wouldn't come. His thoughts wouldn't quiet.

I really am magic, he thought again. Like… actually magic. I lit up my hand. I moved to the roof. That wasn't a dream.

He reached out into the darkness and held his hand up again, trying to remember the warmth, the spark, the thrill of the playground.

Nothing.

He sighed. Maybe he was too tired.

Then, his eyes drifted toward the cupboard door.

I wonder… could I unlock it?

The thought arrived suddenly, wild and strange. But it wouldn't leave. He sat up slowly, heart thumping in the stillness.

I did the light thing. I've done more than that before—teleported, somehow. Maybe I can open the lock. I just need to… imagine it. Right? That's how it works?

He held his hand out toward the door and focused. He imagined the lock turning. The bolt sliding. The handle moving. He pictured it again and again: keys, magic, clicking metal.

Still nothing.

But he didn't stop.

His stomach growled again, louder this time. He clenched his jaw and focused harder. Open. Twist. Unlock. Come on… I'm starving.

And then—

Click.

Harry gasped.

The bolt had turned.

He blinked at the door, stunned for a moment. Then slowly, cautiously, he pushed it open.

The hallway was empty.

He crept into the kitchen, moving silently on socked feet. The fridge let out a soft hum as he opened it. Inside, there was a half-loaf of bread, some sliced cheese, and a nearly full jar of strawberry jam.

They won't miss a bit, he told himself. Not when Dudley eats like a vacuum cleaner with no off switch.

He made a quick sandwich, then another for good measure, and slinked back to his cupboard. With a little more concentration, the door locked behind him again, the bolt sliding neatly into place.

Inside the dark, he summoned the light one more time. It sprang up, soft and golden.

He ate slowly, feeling warmth spread from his belly to his fingertips.

Then, at last, full and content, he curled up and drifted off to sleep with jam on his chin and a grin on his face.

Elsewhere...

Alric Dawlish hated surveillance duty.

"I didn't join the Corps to babysit glowy schoolyards," he muttered as he Disapparated behind a row of Muggle houses, wrapping his shabby brown coat tighter around him. "I should be hunting down cursed trinkets, not peeping on playgrounds because some old bat said she saw a light."

He pulled out a notepad charmed to mimic a field log and scribbled without looking.

Subject: random Muggle neighborhood. Incident: minor magical glow reported. Severity: probably some kid with a flashlight.

He grumbled under his breath. "Moody's losing it. Swear he assigns me these jobs just to get me out of his hair. Crusty, paranoid, one-eyed—"

He stopped.

Two children stood at the far end of the empty schoolyard, nearly hidden behind bushes. One of them held out a hand… and a glow flickered to life.

Then the other did the same.

Dawlish's jaw dropped.

"What in the blazes—?"

He stepped closer, silently casting a Notice-Me-Not charm around himself and crouching behind the fence.

The smaller boy turned slightly, just enough for Dawlish to see the side of his face.

Black hair. Thin frame. Round glasses.

And a scar.

A lightning-shaped scar.

"Bloody Merlin's beard," he whispered. "Is that—? No. No way. That's Harry. Harry Potter."

His hand had instinctively reached for his wand, ready to Obliviate both boys and report it as a routine magical leak. But now he froze.

Harry Potter.

Using wandless magic.

And the other boy wasn't far behind him.

Dawlish stared for a full five minutes as the two boys experimented together—sparking lights, laughing, and talking like magic was just a fun afternoon game. The second boy didn't act surprised or amazed. He acted… confident.

Too confident.

"This is insane," Dawlish muttered, scribbling a new note in his log with a quick flick of the quill. "Two pre-Hogwarts kids doing wandless magic. Potter's expected, maybe. But who the hell is the other one?"

He stood, frowning hard.

"I need to report this to Moody. Right now."

And with a pop, the strange Auror vanished into the night.