The Wandless Archmage

I am Happy to Publish the First Chapter of The Wandless Archmage

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The first grey light of dawn crept through the gap beneath the cupboard door, and Harry's eyes snapped open. He had perhaps three minutes before Aunt Petunia's shrill voice would start barking orders through the wood.

He dressed quickly in the darkness, Dudley's cast-off shirt hung past his knees, and he had to roll the waistband of his too-large shorts twice to keep them up. The moment he emerged, Petunia was already in the kitchen, arms crossed.

"You're late," she said, though the clock read only six-fifteen. "Breakfast. Now. And don't burn the bacon this time, or you'll eat nothing but bread for a week."

Harry moved to the stove like he was a doll being moved by strings, his stomach already growling. He'd learned not to argue, not to explain that he hadn't burned anything for the last ten times.

The bacon sizzled in the pan while he cracked eggs into a bowl. His hands moved on autopilot: flip the bacon, don't let it crisp too much, Vernon hated crispy bacon. Scramble the eggs, not too runny, not too firm. Toast, buttered, cut diagonally.

"Is that grease on the counter?" Petunia's voice cut through his concentration.

Harry glanced over. There was a single drop. "Sorry, Aunt Petunia. I'll clean it right."

"You'll clean it now. What kind of child were you raised to be?"

You raised me, Harry thought but didn't say. He grabbed a cloth and wiped the counter, returned to the eggs just in time to keep them from sticking.

Vernon lumbered into the kitchen, newspaper under his arm, already scowling. "Smells burnt."

"It's not burnt, Uncle Vernon."

"Don't contradict me, boy." Vernon dropped heavily into his chair. "And you've left marks on the floor. Look at those streaks."

Harry looked. He'd scrubbed the kitchen floor on his hands and knees last night until his arms ached. There were no streaks. But Vernon's meaty finger was jabbing toward the tiles, his face already purpling, so Harry simply nodded.

"Yes, sir. I'll do it again after breakfast."

Dudley shuffled in last, still in his pajamas, yawning dramatically. He slumped into his chair and immediately knocked over his glass of orange juice—empty, thankfully, since Harry hadn't poured it yet—and it rolled across the table, clattering to the floor.

"Harry! Clean that up!" Petunia snapped.

"But I'm—" Harry gestured helplessly at the stove, where the eggs were starting to stick.

"Now."

He lunged for the glass, caught it just before it hit the tiles, except he didn't catch it. His fingers were still six inches away when the glass seemed to pause mid-air, then gently right itself and settle on the floor, perfectly upright.

Harry stared at it.

"What are you gawping at?" Vernon barked. "The eggs, boy!"

Harry grabbed the glass, set it on the counter, and rushed back to the stove. His heart was hammering. The glass had... it had stopped. He'd seen it. But Vernon was glaring at him, and the eggs needed stirring, and there was no time to think about it.

He served breakfast, extra bacon for Dudley, extra toast for Vernon.

"When you're done stuffing your face," Petunia said, not looking at him, "the garden needs weeding. And I want the beds done properly this time. Every single weed."

The toast was dry as sand in his mouth

By mid-morning, Harry was on his knees in the garden, the sun already beating down on his neck. Privet Drive was silent except for the distant hum of a lawnmower and the sound of Dudley's video games blaring through the open window.

Harry pulled at a dandelion, its root stubbornly clinging to the soil. He yanked harder, frustration building. His fingers were dirty, his knees ached, and he'd been at this for over an hour with three more flower beds to go.

"Come on," he muttered, pulling with both hands.

The dandelion came free so suddenly he fell backward, and so did the three dandelions behind it, their roots sliding out of the earth as if pulled by invisible hands.

Harry froze, staring at the small pile of weeds beside him.

He looked around quickly. The street was empty. Petunia was inside. No one had seen.

He reached for the next weed, his hand trembling slightly. What had just happened...

"Boy!" Vernon's voice boomed from the doorway. "Those hedges won't trim themselves! Stop lazing about!"

Harry scrambled to his feet, grabbed the shears, and moved to the hedges. His mind wasn't thinking, but his body moved automatically, clipping and shaping while Vernon watched with narrowed eyes.

The glass. The weeds.

There was something wrong with him. Petunia had always said so.

But for the first time, Harry wondered if wrong might mean something else entirely.

By the time Harry finished the last of his chores, scrubbing the bathroom tiles until they gleamed, his whole body was hurting. He'd been working for nearly twelve hours straight.

The smell of roast chicken drifted through the house as he stepped into the kitchen. His mouth watered instantly. Petunia was pulling a golden-brown bird from the oven, surrounded by roasted potatoes and carrots that glistened with butter.

Harry hovered near the doorway, waiting. Sometimes if he was quiet enough, made himself small enough, they'd let him have the scraps.

"Dinner's ready!" Petunia called toward the living room.

Vernon heaved himself up from his armchair with a grunt, Dudley close behind, already reaching for the serving spoon before he'd even sat down.

Harry edged closer to the table, his stomach cramping with hunger.

"And where do you think you're going?" Vernon's voice was cold.

"I finished everything on the list, Uncle Vernon."

"Don't you dare talk back to me, boy."

Harry's mouth went dry. "I wasn't."

"There!" Vernon's fist slammed on the table, making the cutlery jump. "Right there! Contradicting me! I won't have this insolence in my house!"

"Vernon's right," Petunia said, her thin lips pressed into a hard line. She set the chicken down and turned to look at Harry with cold eyes. "You've been trouble all day. Breaking glasses, leaving grease everywhere, and now this attitude."

"I didn't break any—"

"Stop lying!" Petunia's voice went shrill. "We give you a roof over your head, feed you, clothe you, and this is how you repay us? With cheek and lies?"

Harry's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to scream that he'd done everything they'd asked, that he hadn't talked back, that none of this was fair, but the words stuck in his throat.

"You're just like her, you know," Petunia continued, her voice dropping to something almost worse than shouting—something poisonous and quiet. "Your mother. Unnatural. A freak."

The word hit Harry really hard, he can endure almost everything but when they mention his mother its different pain.

"And freaks," Petunia said, glancing at Vernon, "don't deserve dinner."

"Right you are, Pet." Vernon stood, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He grabbed Harry by the shoulder, his thick fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "Cupboard. Now."

Vernon shoved him toward the hallway. Harry stumbled, caught himself against the wall, and felt Vernon's hand between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward. The cupboard door swung open, that familiar dark space, barely big enough to lie down in, smelling of dust and spiders.

"Get in."

Harry climbed inside, his heart pounding. He turned back just as Vernon slammed the door shut. The lock clicked into place.

"You'll stay there until you learn some respect," Vernon's muffled voice said through the wood.

Harry sat in the darkness, his knees pulled up to his chest. There was barely enough room to move. A sliver of light came through the gap beneath the door, just enough to see the vague outlines of his folded blanket, his few belongings tucked into the corner.

His stomach growled, loud in the silence.

From the kitchen, he heard the scrape of chairs, the clink of cutlery on plates.

"Pass the potatoes, Mummy," Dudley's voice, muffled but clear enough.

"Here you are, Dinky-Diddydums. Have as much as you like."

His throat tightened, and for a horrible moment he thought he might cry. But he didn't. He wouldn't give them that.

Instead, he sat very still and tried to think.

The glass this morning. It had stopped mid-fall. He'd been nowhere near it, and yet it had righted itself like an invisible hand had caught it.

The weeds in the garden. They'd pulled themselves free the moment he'd felt that surge of frustration.

And there were other things, weren't there? Things he'd pushed to the back of his mind because thinking about them made him feel strange, made the Dursleys look at him with something worse than anger, with fear.

The time Petunia had tried to force him into an ugly brown sweater, and it had shrunk in her hands before she could get it over his head. She'd screamed and called him unnatural, locked him in the cupboard for two days.

Everything happened always when he was angry. Or scared.

Harry's breath caught.

What if...

What if he was doing it?

The thought should have seemed mad, impossible. But sitting there in the darkness, listening to his family eat dinner while he starved, it felt like the only thing that made sense.

If he was doing it, if he could somehow make things happen, hen maybe he could control it.

Maybe he could get out of this cupboard.

Harry's hands trembled as he placed them flat on the floor. His heart was racing now, not with fear but with something else. Something that felt almost like hope.

But first, he needed to test it. Not just notice things happening around him.

And to do that, he needed to get out.

Harry stared at the locked door, barely visible in the darkness.

He took a deep breath.

Open, he thought. Open. Please open.

Nothing happened.

The lock stayed locked. The door stayed shut.

In the kitchen, Dudley laughed at something Vernon said, and Harry's jaw tightened.

He would figure this out.

He had to.

Because if there was really something he could do, something they couldn't stop—then maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to be powerless anymore.

Harry didn't know how long he'd been sitting in the darkness. An hour? Two? Long enough that the sounds of dinner had faded.

His stomach had gone past growling into a hollow, gnawing ache that made it hard to think about anything else.

But he had to think. He had to focus.

Harry pressed his palms against the cupboard door, feeling the smooth wood beneath his fingers. On the other side, just inches away, was the lock. A simple latch lock, the kind you could open from the outside with a flick of your thumb.

Open, Harry thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Come on. Open.

Nothing.

He tried again, thinking harder, willing it with every part of himself. His head started to ache.

Still nothing.

Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe he was just a freak, like Petunia said, and all those other things had been coincidences.

No.

Harry thought about the chicken he'd smelled but couldn't eat. The potatoes. The carrots. Dudley's pleased little sounds as he'd stuffed his face while Harry sat here, starving.

He thought about Vernon's hand on his shoulder, shoving him. About Petunia's cold eyes and that word freak.

His chest tightened. Heat built behind his eyes.

Get me out, Harry thought, and this time it wasn't a request. It was a demand, raw and desperate. Get me OUT.

Something shifted.

It was barely audible—a soft click, like a pin sliding out of place.

Harry's eyes snapped open.

The door was still closed, but when he pushed against it, it swung outward, the lock hanging loose.

For a moment, Harry just stared, his breath coming fast. Then his stomach cramped again, reminding him why this mattered.

He crawled out of the cupboard, his legs stiff and aching. The hallway was dark except for the flickering light of the television coming from the living room. He could hear Vernon snoring already—loud, rattling snores that meant he was deep asleep in his chair.

Harry crept toward the kitchen, each step careful. His bare feet made no sound on the carpet, then the cool tile as he slipped through the doorway.

The kitchen was dark, but enough moonlight came through the window that he could see the refrigerator.

His hands shook as he reached for the bread. Two slices. Butter from the fridge, not too much, they'd notice if too much was gone. A slice of cheese. He folded it quickly, took a huge bite, and nearly moaned at the taste.

He was halfway through the sandwich when the thought occurred to him: the cupboard door was still unlocked.

If Vernon got up in the night and saw...

Harry turned to look back down the hallway, swallowing his mouthful of bread. The cupboard door was barely visible in the darkness.

He needed to lock it. From here.

Harry set down his sandwich and stared at the door, concentrating the way he had before. He tried to summon that same desperate feeling, that same heat.

Lock. Please lock.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, harder this time, until sweat beaded on his forehead.

The door didn't move.

Harry's stomach sank. Maybe it only worked when he was desperate. Or maybe he'd just gotten lucky once and wouldn't be able to do it again.

Either way, he couldn't lock it from here.

He'd have to go back. Lock himself in. Hope they didn't notice anything strange in the morning.

Harry picked up his sandwich, taking another quick bite—

Click.

The kitchen light blazed to life, bright and sudden as a camera flash.

Harry spun around, his heart leaping into his throat.

Aunt Petunia stood in the doorway, one hand still on the light switch. She wore a faded pink nightgown, her hair in curlers, and her face...

Her face was twisted with something beyond anger. Something cold and terrible.

"You," she breathed.

Harry took a step back, his spine hitting the counter. "I was just, I was hungry."

"Vernon!" Petunia's voice went shrill, piercing. "VERNON!"

"Aunt Petunia, please, I didn't mean—"

"VERNON! GET IN HERE!"

Heavy footsteps thundered from the living room. Vernon appeared behind Petunia, his face still slack with sleep, his shirt untucked. But when he saw Harry standing there with the sandwich in his hand, his expression sharpened into fury.

"How did you get out?" Vernon's voice was low, dangerous.

"I, the lock must have been open."

"The lock was fine when I put you in there." Vernon stepped into the kitchen, and suddenly the room felt much smaller. "So you tell me, boy. How. Did. You. Get. Out."

Harry's mouth opened, but no words came. What could he say? That he'd thought it open? That would only make things worse.

Vernon's eyes narrowed. "Are you picking locks now? Is that it? Learning tricks from criminals?"

"No! I didn't—"

"He did something," Petunia whispered, her voice shaking. She was staring at Harry like he was a snake that had crawled out from under the refrigerator. "Something unnatural. Just like, just like his mother."

"Don't say it," Vernon snapped. He grabbed Harry's arm, his grip iron-tight. The sandwich fell from Harry's hand, landing on the floor. "Back in the cupboard. Now."

"Uncle Vernon, please."

But Vernon was already dragging him toward the hallway, Petunia following close behind, her face pale and frightened.

Vernon's fingers dug into Harry's arm hard enough to leave marks as he hauled him down the hallway. Harry's feet barely touched the ground.

"Please, Uncle Vernon, I won't do it again—"

"Quiet!" Vernon shoved him toward the cupboard, and Harry stumbled, catching himself against the doorframe. "Get. In."

Harry crawled inside, his heart hammering. He turned back just as Vernon's face appeared in the doorway—red, furious, and something else. Something that looked almost like fear.

"Vernon," Petunia's voice came from behind him, thin and trembling. "The lock. It's not enough. He opened it somehow. We need—"

"I know what we need." Vernon disappeared for a moment, then returned with something metal glinting in his hand. A padlock. The heavy kind they used on the shed.

"Uncle Vernon, no, please."

Vernon didn't respond. He slammed the door shut, and Harry heard the scrape of metal, the click of the padlock snapping into place. Then another sound, Vernon testing it, pulling hard to make sure it held.

"There," Vernon said, breathing hard. "Let's see you get out of that."

"Vernon." Petunia's voice was closer now, right outside the door. "What if he does it again? What if he does something worse?"

There was a pause. Harry pressed his ear against the door, his breath shallow.

"He won't," Vernon said finally. "Because he's going to learn what happens to freaks who use tricks in this house."

"He's just like her." Petunia's voice dropped to a hiss, but Harry could still hear every word. "Just like her. Unnatural. Wrong. I knew it the moment we took him in, I knew—"

"Pet." Vernon's voice was firm. "That's enough. He's not going anywhere. We'll keep him in there until he learns."

"How long?"

"As long as it takes."

Harry sat in the darkness, his back against the wall, trying to slow his breathing.

Three days.

That's how long they left him there.

Petunia opened the door twice a day, once in the morning, once at night. She'd shove in a plate with two slices of dry bread and a cup of water, her face turned away like she couldn't bear to look at him.

Harry ate the bread slowly, making it last. He drank the water in tiny sips. And he sat in the darkness, thinking.

On the first day, his whole body ached from being curled up in such a small space.

On the second day, anger began to creep in. They'd locked him up like an animal for being hungry. To escape a prison they had no right to put him in.

But on the third day, something changed.

Harry stared at the sliver of light beneath the door and thought about the lock clicking open.

He'd done those things. And he can do it again, maybe not perfectly, but in a way or another, he can try and do so.

Petunia had said he was like his mother. Unnatural, she'd called it. Wrong.

But what if it wasn't wrong?

What if it was just... different?

Harry's hands curled into fists on his lap.

They could lock him in here and do everything that they want with him. But they couldn't take away whatever this was, this thing inside him that made impossible things happen.

And if he could learn to control it, not just when he was desperate or scared.

Maybe he could fight back.

Harry leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

When they finally let him out, he'd be careful. Quiet. He'd do his chores and keep his head down and make them think he'd learned his lesson.

But in the darkness, in the moments they couldn't see, he'd practice.

He'd learn.

And one day, they'd regret ever locking him in this cupboard.

Harry lay in the cupboard, staring at the spider in the corner. It had been there for three days now, spinning its web in the upper right corner where the wall met the ceiling.

One month. That's how long he'd been trying.

One month of failures and half-successes. Of dishes flying when he wanted them to slide. Of flowers blooming when he tried to make just one petal move.

But tonight felt different.

Harry took a slow breath and thought about Dudley. About yesterday, when Dudley had "accidentally" spilled his drink on Harry's only pair of trainers, then laughed while Petunia blamed Harry for being clumsy.

He felt the familiar anger in his chest.

But this time, he didn't let it explode. He held it there, contained it, shaped it like clay in his hands.

Move, Harry thought, focusing on the spider. Just crawl. Left to right. Slowly.

The spider twitched.

Harry's breath caught, but he didn't lose focus. He kept the anger burning steady, not desperate. Controlled.

The spider took one step. Then another. It crawled across the wall exactly as Harry had imagined, left to right, following the path he'd drawn in his mind.

When it reached the spot Harry had pictured, it stopped.

Harry exhaled, his heart racing.

It had worked. Really worked.

In the darkness, Harry smiled.

He was getting better.

And that meant everything was about to change.

The hedge clippers were heavy in Harry's hands as he worked his way along the privet hedge at the back of the garden. The August sun beat down on his neck, and sweat trickled down his spine beneath Dudley's oversized hand-me-down shirt.

He was almost finished. Just this last section, and then.

"Oi! Potter!"

Harry's stomach dropped. He knew that voice.

He turned slowly to see Dudley waddling through the back gate, Piers Polkiss close behind him. Two other boys from Dudley's gang, Malcolm and Dennis, all wearing identical nasty grins.

"Didn't know you were allowed out of your cupboard," Piers said, his pointed face twisted with mock surprise. "Thought they kept you locked up."

The other boys laughed.

Harry's grip tightened on the hedge clippers. "I'm working. Leave me alone."

"Leave me alone," Dudley mimicked in a whiny voice. He moved closer, the other boys spreading out in a loose semicircle. "What are you going to do if we don't? Tell Mummy and Daddy?"

More laughter.

He took a step back, but his heel hit the fence. Trapped.

"Where are you going to run, freak?" Malcolm said, grinning. "Nowhere to go this time."

"I don't want any trouble," Harry said, hating how small his voice sounded. He set down the hedge clippers carefully, not wanting them to think he was threatening them.

Dudley shoved him, hard.

Harry stumbled backward into the hedge. Branches scraped his arms and tangled in his hair. He tried to catch himself, but his feet slipped on the grass.

The boys howled with laughter.

"Look at him!" Dennis said. "He's stuck like a scarecrow!"

Harry pulled himself free, leaves clinging to his shirt. His heart was hammering now, and he could feel it.

No, Harry thought desperately. Not now. Not like this.

He'd been practicing control. He'd gotten better at this. He didn't want to hurt them, even if they deserved it.

"What's wrong, Potter?" Piers moved closer, his eyes gleaming. "You going to cry?"

"Maybe he'll wet himself," Malcolm added. "That's what freaks do, isn't it?"

"I said leave me alone." Harry's voice was steadier now, but his hands were shaking. The heat in his chest was growing, spreading through his arms, his fingers.

Control it, he told himself. Just hold it back.

Dudley stepped forward, close enough that Harry could smell the chocolate on his breath. "Make me."

For a moment, Harry just stared at him. At his cousin's piggy eyes, the way he puffed out his chest like he owned the world.

"Can't, can you?" Dudley said softly, and there was something almost curious in his voice. Like he was testing Harry, pushing to see what would happen. "You're just a freak. A powerless little girl."

Dudley shoved him again, harder this time.

Harry slammed back into the fence, pain shooting through his shoulder blades. The hedge clippers fell over with a clatter.

The boys closed in, forming a tight circle around him.

And Harry realized they weren't going to stop.

Piers grabbed Harry's arm before he could dodge, fingers digging into his bicep. Harry tried to twist free, but Piers was bigger, stronger, and he held on tight.

"Hold him still," Dudley said.

"No, let go."

Dudley's fist slammed into Harry's stomach.

All the air left Harry's lungs in a painful whoosh. He doubled over, gasping, but Piers still had his arm, keeping him upright, exposed.

"Good one, Dud!" Malcolm laughed.

Harry tried to breathe, tried to speak, but his diaphragm had seized up. Spots danced in his vision.

Then something struck his side, a kick, hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground when Piers finally let go.

"Get up, freak," Dennis said, and kicked him again. This one caught his ribs, and pain exploded through Harry's chest.

He curled into a ball, arms wrapped around his head, trying to protect himself. The world had narrowed to just pain and the sound of their laughter.

"Come on, Potter," Dudley's voice came from above him. "I thought you were going to make me stop?"

Another kick, aimed at his spine. Harry bit back a cry.

Stop, he thought desperately. Please stop please stop please—

"Aw, I think he's crying," Piers said.

"Let me see." Dudley's weight shifted. Harry could sense him getting ready for another kick, this one aimed at his ribs again, right where it already hurt so much he could barely breathe.

Something inside Harry happened.

Harry looked up through his tangled hair and met Dudley's eyes. His cousin was grinning, his foot still raised, ready to strike.

Stop.

This time it wasn't a plea. It was a command.

Harry felt the heat in his chest explode outward, rushing through his body like a dam breaking. He focused it all, every bit of pain, every ounce of rage needed for this to end, directly at Dudley.

He didn't know what would happen. Didn't know if anything would happen at all.

But he willed it with everything he had.

STOP.

The air itself seemed to change. A pressure built around them, heavy and electric, like the moment before lightning strikes. Even the wind stopped.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then there was a sound, like a thunderclap and a rushing wind combined, so loud it made Harry's ears ring.

Dudley flew backward.

Then he crumpled to the ground and didn't move.

For a moment, no one breathed.

Harry stared at his cousin's motionless body, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might burst. Dudley's face was pale, his mouth slightly open. His chest rose and fell, shallow breaths, but breaths.

He was alive. Just unconscious.

"What did you?" Piers's voice came out as a squeak. "What did you do?"

Harry turned to look at him, and Piers stumbled backward, his face white as chalk.

"He's a, he's a.." Dennis couldn't finish the sentence. He turned and ran, crashing through the gate and disappearing into Magnolia Crescent.

"Wait!" Malcolm called, but he was already running too, Piers right behind him, the three of them fleeing like Harry had turned into a monster.

And maybe he had.

Harry pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. His ribs screamed in protest, his stomach ached, but he barely felt it. His whole body was trembling like he'd been dunked in ice water.

He looked down at his hand.

They looked the same. Small, thin, scraped from the fall. Just hands.

But they weren't just hands. Not anymore.

He'd done that. Not by accident, not in a moment of panic, he couldn't remember. He'd chosen to do it, focused every bit of himself on making it happen.

Harry's gaze drifted back to Dudley, still crumpled against the fence, and something cold settled in his stomach.

He'd hurt someone.

That should have scared him.

Instead, all Harry felt was tired.

And something else. Something that felt dangerously close to power.

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