I am Happy to Publish Another Chapter of The Wandless Archmage
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Harry took some steps toward his cousin. His breath came ragged and thin.
Dudley hadn't moved.
What if I killed him? What if he's dead? I hope I didn't kill him
No. Look, there. Dudley's chest rose. Fell. Rose again. Slow but he was breathing.
Harry crouched low, close enough to see but far enough to run. No blood. No twisted limbs. Just Dudley slumped against the fence, his face gone slack and strangely peaceful. Harry had never seen Dudley look peaceful before.
But beneath the sickness, beneath the fear, something else stirred. Something dark and warm and hungry.
Dudley had been about to kick him again. They all had, Piers and Malcolm and Dennis, circling like dogs around a wounded thing. And now? Now they were scattered. Running. Screaming. And Dudley was the one on the ground.
Not Harry.
For once in his miserable life, Harry was the one left standing.
"DUDLEY!"
The back door slammed open, and Aunt Petunia came running across the lawn, her face white with terror.
"Dudley! Oh my God, Dudley!" She fell to her knees beside him, her hands fluttering over his face. "What did you do? What did you do to him?"
"I didn't mean, he was hitting me, and I just..."
"VERNON!" Petunia's scream was shrill enough to hurt. "VERNON, COME QUICK!"
"Aunt Petunia, he'll be fine."
"Don't you dare!" She turned on Harry, her face twisted with rage and fear. "Don't you dare tell me he's fine! Look at him! Look what you've done!"
Heavy footsteps thundered through the house. Vernon burst through the back door, still in his work suit, his face already purple.
"What's happened?" He saw Dudley and froze. "Dudley? Dudley!"
He rushed to his son's side, pushing Petunia aside. "What happened to him? Did he fall?" His gaze snapped to Harry, and his eyes narrowed. "What did you do?"
"Nothing! He was, they were all hitting me, and I just wanted them to stop."
"You did this." Vernon's voice was flat. "You used your, your freakishness on my son."
"I didn't mean to hurt him! I just protected myself."
"Get in the house." Vernon scooped Dudley up in his arms, grunting with the effort. Dudley's head lolled against his father's shoulder. "Petunia, call an ambulance. Now."
"Vernon, what if they ask questions?"
"Now, Petunia!"
They rushed past Harry without another glance, as if he'd ceased to exist. The back door slammed shut behind them.
Harry stood alone in the garden.
The hedge clippers lay on their side in the grass. The fence where Dudley had hit showed a slight dent in the wood. Everything else looked exactly as it had before.
But everything had changed.
Harry looked down at his hands again. They were trembling slightly, scratched and dirty from when he'd fallen.
He'd chosen to do it, focused all his rage and desperation into a single point, and it had worked exactly as he'd intended.
Well, almost. He'd meant to push Dudley back, make him stop. He hadn't meant to knock him unconscious. That part had been... more than he'd expected.
But he'd done it.
And now the Dursleys knew what he was capable of.
Harry waited for the fear to come, for the sick feeling in his stomach to overwhelm him. He'd just hurt someone. His own cousin. They'd probably lock him in the cupboard for weeks, or worse.
But the fear didn't come.
Instead, Harry felt something unfurling in his chest. Something that had been curled up tight for as long as he could remember.
He was different. He'd always known that, had always felt it, but now he understood it.
And he'd only just begun to discover what he could do.
Harry picked up the hedge clippers and set them in the shed. Then he walked slowly back toward the house, his heart still racing, his mind spinning with possibilities he'd never dared imagine before.
Harry lay on his back in the cupboard, staring at the underside of the stairs. He could trace every crack in the wood by now, every knot and imperfection. But tonight, he wasn't seeing them.
He was seeing Dudley.
Flying backward through the air, arms windmilling uselessly. The sound when he hit was like a heavy thud that seemed to echo in Harry's bones.
Harry's stomach twisted. He rolled onto his side, curling into a ball, but he couldn't escape the images playing over and over in his mind.
I could have killed him.
Harry pressed his hands against his face, his breath coming short and fast. He'd made things happen when he was scared or angry, but never like this. Never on purpose. Never looking someone in the eye and choosing to hurt them.
That made him just like Dudley, didn't it?
Dudley, who'd punched smaller kids for fun. Who'd laughed when his gang held Harry down. Who'd kicked him when he was already on the ground, already helpless.
Harry had done the same thing. Worse, even. At least Dudley used his fists. Harry had used... whatever that power was. Something Dudley couldn't fight back against.
I'm just like him.
But even as he thought it, something felt wrong about the comparison.
Dudley hurt people because he enjoyed it. Because it made him feel big and important. Because he could.
Harry had hurt Dudley because they wouldn't stop. Because he'd been on the ground with his ribs screaming and Dudley's foot coming at him again, and every instinct in his body had been screaming make it stop MAKE IT STOP.
Harry's breath hitched.
He was going to keep hitting you, a quiet voice said in his head. Not his usual thoughts, but something deeper, calmer. They weren't going to stop until you couldn't get up anymore.
"But I hurt him," Harry whispered into the darkness.
You defended yourself.
"I could have killed him."
But you didn't.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The guilt was still there, heavy and sick in his stomach, but the voice, his own voice, he realized, the part of him that wasn't drowning in fear and self-hatred—kept pushing back.
You gave them chances to stop. You told them to leave you alone. You didn't want to fight.
That was true. Harry had tried to avoid it. Had practically begged them to just let him finish his work.
And when they wouldn't stop, when Dudley was about to kick you again, you protected yourself. That's not wrong. That's survival.
"The Dursleys said I'm dangerous," Harry said softly. "Maybe they're right."
They've been calling you that your whole life. Before you ever did anything to deserve it. Before you even knew you had this power.
Harry opened his eyes, staring at the dim outline of the cupboard door.
You're not dangerous because you have power, the voice continued, growing stronger, more certain. You're only dangerous if you use it the way they use theirs, to hurt people who can't fight back.
"But what if I do?" Harry's voice cracked. "What if I become like them?"
Then you'd be hurting people who didn't deserve it. People who weren't trying to hurt you first.
Harry took a shaky breath. The guilt was still there, he didn't think it would ever fully go away, and maybe that was good. Maybe feeling bad about hurting someone, even someone like Dudley, meant he wasn't turning into a monster.
But beneath the guilt, something else was building. Something that felt like steel, hard and unyielding.
Harry rolled onto his back again, his heart rate finally slowing. The cupboard felt smaller than usual tonight, the darkness more oppressive. But for the first time in his life, he didn't feel trapped.
Because he knew that if he wanted to, he could open that door.
They couldn't lock him in anymore. Not really.
And they couldn't hurt him anymore either.
Not without consequences.
Harry closed his eyes, and this time when he pictured Dudley flying backward, the guilt was still there, but so was something else.
Relief.
He'd survived. He'd fought back. And he was still here.
Harry must have dozed off, because he woke to the sound of a car door slamming.
He sat up quickly, his heart jumping into his throat. The cupboard door was still slightly ajar, they hadn't locked it. Hadn't even closed it properly. That alone told him how much had changed.
Through the gap, he could see the front door opening. Vernon's bulk filled the doorway, and behind him, Dudley.
Harry's breath caught.
His cousin was walking, at least, leaning heavily on Vernon's arm. He looked pale, almost grey in the porch light, and there was a white bandage wrapped around his head. His usually piggy eyes were unfocused, blinking slowly like he'd just woken up.
"Careful now, Dudders," Vernon said gruffly. "Watch the step."
Dudley mumbled something unintelligible and nearly tripped over the threshold. Vernon caught him, grunting with effort.
Aunt Petunia rushed in behind them, her handbag clutched to her chest, her face pinched with worry.
"Are you sure you're all right ?" Petunia reached up to touch Dudley's face, her thin fingers trembling. "Does your head hurt?
Head hurts," Dudley slurred. "Where... where's my room?"
"Upstairs, darling. Come on, we'll get you to bed."
They moved past the cupboard, so close Harry could have reached out and touched them, but none of them looked his way. Not even a glance. It was as if the cupboard was empty, as if Harry had ceased to exist.
He watched them struggle up the stairs, Vernon half-carrying Dudley while Petunia fretted and fussed. Their voices drifted down, muffled but audible.
"That's it, nice and slow... watch the banister, Dudley... oh, my poor baby..."
Harry waited until they'd disappeared into Dudley's room before creeping out of the cupboard. His legs were stiff from lying down so long, and his ribs still ached from where Dennis had kicked him, but he moved silently down the hallway, staying in the shadows.
He could hear them through Dudley's open door.
"There we are. Into bed now." The creak of bedsprings. "Let me fluff your pillow, sweetheart. Do you need another blanket? Some water?"
"...I'm tired..."
"Of course you are. Just rest now. Mummy's right here."
A long pause. Then Vernon's gruff voice: "He's asleep."
"Thank God." Petunia's voice was shaky. "Vernon, what if."
"Not here. Downstairs."
Footsteps approached, and Harry quickly pressed himself against the wall, hidden in the darkness beside the linen cupboard.
Harry waited a few seconds, then followed, keeping to the edges of the steps where they wouldn't creak. The kitchen light was on, and their voices carried through the half-open door.
He crouched in the hallway, listening.
"The doctors said he has a concussion." Petunia's voice was tight, controlled, but Harry could hear the tremor underneath. "A concussion, Vernon. What if it had been worse?"
"But it wasn't." Vernon sounded tired. "He'll be fine in a few days. The doctor said so. Rest and quiet, that's all he needs."
"That's not the point!" Petunia's voice rose sharply. "The boy is dangerous. He's exactly like, like her. We can't control him anymore, Vernon. We can't."
"We never could, Pet." Vernon's words were heavy, almost defeated. "We just didn't want to admit it."
Silence.
Harry held his breath, his heart pounding so loud he was sure they'd hear it.
"So what do we do?" Petunia finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "We can't just... what, ignore it? Pretend nothing happened?"
"We keep our distance," Vernon said slowly, like he was thinking it through as he spoke. "We just... leave him alone."
"Leave him alone?" Petunia sounded incredulous. "Vernon, he put our son in the hospital."
"I hate to say it, but if we push him again, if we lock him up or starve him, it may bring worse things..."
"I don't know what he'd do," Vernon said flatly. "And that's the problem. We don't know what he's capable of."
"And if he does something else?" Petunia asked, her voice thick with bitterness. "Something worse?"
"Then we pray he doesn't," Vernon said. "But pushing him it only makes things worse. We saw that today."
The sound of a chair scraping. Footsteps.
"I never wanted this," Petunia said quietly, and there was something raw in her voice Harry had never heard before. "I never wanted him. When they left him on our doorstep, I told you we should refuse. I told you."
"I know."
"But we took him in anyway, and now look. Look what's happened."
"I know, Pet." Vernon's voice was gentler now. "But we're stuck with him. And now..." A pause. "Now he knows what he can do."
Harry pressed his back against the wall, his hands trembling.
They were afraid of him.
Truly, genuinely afraid.
"We'll keep him fed," Petunia said finally. "We'll give him space. And we'll keep our mouths shut. No one needs to know about... about what he can do, but the neighbors saw..."
"Saw Dudley fall. That's all. An accident. Boys roughhousing."
"And the other boys? Piers and the others?"
"They'll keep quiet if they know what's good for them. Who'd believe them anyway? They'd think they were mad."
Footsteps again, moving away from the door.
"I'm going to check on Dudley," Petunia said. "You should... you should make sure the boy's in his cupboard."
"Pet-"
"I can't look at him, Vernon. Not tonight. Just... make sure he's there. Please."
Harry didn't wait to hear more. He crept silently back through the hallway and slipped into the cupboard, pulling the door almost closed behind him.
He lay down on his thin mattress and slept.
A woman's laugh, low and close. The smell of something warm bread, maybe, or wool dried by a fire. A light he couldn't see the source of, only feel, soft gold against the inside of his eyelids. And a voice, not quite his own memory and not quite a stranger's, speaking a word into the hush of a room he didn't recognize.
"Lumos."
The light, in the dream, had bloomed.
Harry woke with his cheek pressed to the lumpy seam of his pillow and the word still shaped on his tongue. For a long moment, he didn't move. The cupboard was dark in the particular way it got after midnight, not the friendly dark of a bedroom but the close, dust-thick dark of a space too small to hold a person in. He could hear Uncle Vernon snoring two floors above. He could hear the kitchen clock ticking somewhere on the other side of the wall.
Harry sat cross-legged in his cupboard, wide awake in the darkness.
Lumos.
"Lumos," Harry whispered.
Nothing happened.
He stared at his palm, willing something, anything, to appear. A glow. A spark. Even the faintest shimmer.
Nothing.
Harry frowned. Maybe the word didn't matter. Maybe it was just... in the dream, the women had seemed so sure. Like saying the word was only part of it. Like he'd believed it would work.
Harry closed his eyes and tried again.
This time, he focused the way he had with the spider. He remembered the careful control, the precise image in his mind.
He imagined light. Soft and pale, like moonlight. He imagined it growing from his palm, gentle and warm.
"Lumos," he whispered again.
For a moment, nothing.
Then...
A flicker.
Harry's eyes snapped open. His hand was still dark, but he'd felt something. A warmth, just for an instant, like holding his palm too close to a candle.
His heart hammered in his chest.
Again.
He focused harder this time, pouring everything he had into the image. Light. Glowing. Real. He demanded it. Willed it into existence the way he'd willed Dudley backward, the way he'd willed the lock to open.
"Lumos."
A tiny point of light flickered at the tip of his index finger.
It was faint, barely brighter than a firefly, and it died almost instantly. But it had been there.
Harry stared at his finger, breathing hard.
"Holy shit," he whispered.
He tried again immediately, before he could lose the feeling. He focused on his palm this time, imagining a small orb of light resting there, steady and bright.
"Lumos."
The light bloomed.
It wasn't much, a ghostly glow about the size of a marble, hovering just above his skin. It cast faint shadows on the cupboard walls, illuminated the dusty corners, and made his hand look almost translucent.
Harry held his breath, afraid that moving would make it disappear.
The light flickered. Dimmed. His head was starting to ache, a dull pressure building behind his eyes.
He tried to hold it, to keep it burning, but it was like trying to hold water in his cupped hands. After a few seconds, the glow faded completely, leaving him in darkness again.
Harry slumped against the wall, exhausted.
His head was pounding now, and his hand trembled slightly. But he was grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.
He'd said a word, probably a made-up word from some children's book, and he'd focused his will, and he'd created light from nothing.
"Lumos," Harry whispered again, just to hear himself say it.
This time, only the faintest flicker appeared before dying out. He was too tired. Whatever he'd just done, it had drained something from him, left him feeling hollow and wrung-out.
But that was fine.
He could rest. He could try again tomorrow.
Harry lay down on his mattress, staring up at the darkness where the cupboard ceiling was. His mind was racing despite his exhaustion.
If he could make light, what else could he do?
Could he move things without touching them? Could he unlock any door, not just his cupboard? Could he make himself invisible?
The possibilities felt endless.
For eight years, Harry had been powerless. He'd done what he was told, kept his head down, accepted every punishment and insult and locked door because he'd had no choice.
But that had changed.
He had power now. Real power. And no one had given it to him; it had been his all along, buried and ignored and suppressed, but his.
The Dursleys couldn't take it away.
They couldn't lock it in a cupboard.
Harry's grin faded into something quieter, more determined.
He would learn to control this. He would practice until he could do more than make a tiny light or push someone backward. He would figure out what he was, what this power meant, where it came from.
And when he did...
Well.
The Dursleys had been right to be afraid.
Harry closed his eyes and let exhaustion pull him under, his last thought a single word whispered into the darkness:
"Lumos."
Harry woke with a start, his consciousness lurching back into his body with the violence of a man pulled from drowning, utterly unsure whether he had slept for minutes or hours or perhaps hadn't truly slept at all but merely hovered in that twilight state between waking and dreams. The house was still silent, still dark, still wrapped in that oppressive quiet that precedes either dawn or disaster. His head no longer ached quite so badly, the throbbing had subsided to a dull, manageable pain.
He sat up, his heart already racing with an anticipation he could neither suppress nor fully understand.
Light was one thing. Useful, certainly, a victory over the darkness that imprisoned him. But limited. Just a glow in the darkness that faded the moment his concentration slipped, ephemeral as a candle flame in the wind.
But if he could pull light out of nothing, what else was in there? Heat. Movement. The whole vocabulary of the world.
He thought about the kitchen stove, forbidden to him since he could remember. He thought about Dudley's birthday cakes — the long rows of candles, the heat coming off them in waves, the way Dudley had been allowed to lean close and blow them out as if fire were something that belonged to him by right.
Harry held out his hand in the dark.
He almost said it. The word fire was already sitting on his tongue, ready, hungry.
Then he made himself think.
The cupboard was the size of a coffin. The mattress under him was old and dry. The shelf above his head held cleaning rags, a half-empty tin of furniture polish, a stack of newspapers Aunt Petunia had been meaning to throw out for two years. The door was bolted from the outside.
If he set anything alight — even by accident, even for a second — he would not get out.
And the rest of the house would burn with him.
Harry let his hand drop.
The disappointment was sharp and surprising. He'd wanted it. Some part of him had wanted it badly enough that the not knowing felt almost worse than the risk. But he wasn't stupid. He'd watched Aunt Petunia put out the chip pan with a damp tea-towel last winter when the oil had caught; he'd seen how fast the flames had climbed up the cupboard above the hob, blackening the paint in seconds. Fire wasn't something you summoned in a wooden box. Fire was something you only summoned somewhere you could run from.
Outside, then. The garden, when the Dursleys were gone. A flowerpot. A patch of bare dirt where nothing could catch.
Not here. Not tonight.
He turned his palm up again and tried, instead, to think of something the cupboard could survive.
Warm, he thought. Not burning. Just — warm.
He pictured it the way he had pictured the light: a small thing, cradled, held. The memory of summer pavement under his bare feet. The way the kitchen radiator felt when Aunt Petunia was baking and he could press his back to it for thirty seconds before being shooed away. The patch of sunlight that crawled across the cupboard floor for ten minutes every afternoon in July.
Heat without flame. Warmth without anything to burn.
His palm prickled.
It was so faint he thought at first he'd imagined it — and then it wasn't faint. A small, steady warmth, no source, no glow, just heat, gathering in the cup of his hand like something handed to him. He brought it slowly to his face. Held it under his chin. Felt it on his cheek.
He laughed, soundlessly, mouth open, into the dark.
It was better than the light, somehow. Quieter. He could feel it under his skin instead of just seeing it. He pressed both hands to his throat, where he was always cold in winter, and the warmth went into him like a swallow of tea.
It cost him, the same way the light had — the slow ache rebuilding behind his eyes, the trembling in his fingers, the hollow feeling underneath his ribs. He let it go before it ran him out completely.
But he had a list now. He could feel it forming in his head, careful, ordered, the way he organised his hidden things under the loose floorboard.
Things he could do in the cupboard. Things he could not. Things he would try outside, when he was sure no one was watching.
Everything else, he thought, just before sleep took him. Everything else, eventually.
He fell asleep with his hands tucked under his chin, still faintly warm.
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