Chapter 7 — Magic in the Dursley's House
I had a feeling the pencil was afraid of me.
It stood there, innocently enough, on my desk by the window. A common yellow pencil, the sort every four-year-old is meant to chew on during their first attempt at drawing a house.
The first few days after our visit with Professor Snape had been strange. Normal, but not quite. No one had seen us there, Snape had somehow made sure of that. Petunia never asked how; I didn't either. Some knowledge, I decided, was better left inside sealed bottles. Or in Snape's case, sealed jars in a dark cupboard.
And I had requested, firmly, that this little secret—Harry's safety, our visit, everything—remain known only to us. Not even Dumbledore should hear of it. I didn't think the old man was bad or manipulative, not in the cruel sense that some fans in my past life once argued. But cautious people lived longer, and I quite liked living.
By the start of December, the house had settled into an odd peace. Vernon was back to work, Dudley was growing rounder, Harry was babbling more each day, and I—well, I was trying to move a pencil with my mind.
Every night, after Mum and Dad went to bed, I'd sneak out my little "training kit" — a pencil, a marble, a spoon, and my absolute favourite: a shiny toy car. Harry and Dudley would be asleep, snoring softly in their cot. Dudley's snores had this funny whistling sound, like a kettle about to boil, while Harry sometimes muttered half-words in his sleep — "Maa," or "Art." It was adorable and mildly distracting when you were trying to bend the laws of physics.
The first few tries were wobbly. The pencil trembled like a nervous squirrel. The marble rolled an inch and then stopped, as if to say, That's enough for one night. But I could feel it — that pulse, that hum of power under my skin.
It took me a week to realise something important: It wasn't about moving air or wind or force. Magic didn't push things. It commanded them. It didn't need physics. It just was. It could move anything, if I willed it so. And once I understood that, things began to change.
I learned something else too: the trick wasn't shouting with power, it was whispering with will. The calmer I was, the better it worked.
The pencil wobbled one evening, a faint tremor like it had hiccupped. Then, a day later, it rolled an inch. Then two. Then three. I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. I nearly whooped loud enough to wake Harry.
It wasn't just the pencil. Soon, erasers, coins, and toy cars began to respond. Everything became an experiment.
Could I make it spin? Yes.
Could I move two things at once? Sort of — until they bonked together midair and nearly gave me a heart attack.
Some days, I could lift them a few inches before the effort gave me a splitting headache. Other days, nothing worked at all. But each success felt electric.
Magic wasn't like anything I'd ever read about—it wasn't cold power or a tool. It was alive, fluid, shimmering in my veins like music waiting to be played.
When I focused, I could feel more than just the movement of things. I could feel people. Not in a creepy way, but when I concentrated on someone nearby—Petunia humming in the kitchen, Vernon grumbling over his newspaper—I caught hints of their moods. A mild irritation, a flicker of thought.
It was like brushing against ripples on a pond, feeling where the stones had been thrown.
I began to understand it then—the three sides of my growing abilities. The power of the body kept me healthy, alert, even oddly graceful for a four-year-old. I could balance perfectly on the edge of the pavement, much to Petunia's horror.
The power of the mind let me sense thoughts, faint echoes when I met someone's eyes. And the power of the soul—that strange undercurrent—connected me to the world in ways words couldn't explain.
Each layer felt stronger with practice, clearer, sharper. I wasn't confused about it anymore; this wasn't random. It was me learning to listen.
Of course, secret experiments are never truly secret in a house with toddlers.
Dudley caught me first. He waddled into my room one afternoon, biscuit crumbs stuck to his face, and stared as a small block hovered in midair.
He shrieked something, which I think meant "Arthur!" or possibly "Food!"
I panicked and dropped it—straight onto my foot. Dudley clapped like it was a grand performance.
"Don't tell Mum," I hissed, wincing.
He blinked. "Mum," he repeated solemnly.
"Right. I'll give you a biscuit."
Deal sealed. Dudley Dursley, keeper of dangerous secrets, bribed with baked goods.
Harry was subtler. He watched, wide-eyed, from his playpen one evening as I levitated his toy snitch over his head. His gaze followed it like a cat. Then, he reached out, giggled, and said—very clearly—"Art!"
That was the first time he'd said my name. My heart did this weird fluttery thing, like I'd swallowed a spark.
Dudley, of course, refused to be outdone.
"Dud!" he shouted, pointing proudly at himself.
Competition, it seemed, started early in our family.
Over the following days, Harry began speaking more and more. "Maa," "Mum," "Da," "Dada," "Dud," and my personal favourite, "Art." He said it with a gurgly delight that melted Petunia's heart and mine too, though I pretended to be nonchalant.
Sometimes he'd mix them up, calling Mum "Art" and me "Mum." She didn't even mind. She just hugged him and laughed, and I think that was the first real laugh I'd heard from her in weeks.
It made sense, really. In the canon I remembered, Harry had been flying on toy brooms, which either James or Sirius had brought, before he turned two. A few words were nothing.
Still, it was heartwarming to watch his bright green eyes light up every time he managed a new sound.
The house had changed subtly since Harry came. Livelier, warmer somehow. Even Mum seemed less sharp-edged. She still tutted at odd things, but she didn't recoil when Harry laughed, and sometimes, I caught her watching him with something like guilt—or was it longing?
Then there was the cat.
A ginger one, with bright eyes and a tail that flicked like it was constantly judging us. It had begun appearing shortly after Harry arrived—on the garden wall, by the doorstep, sometimes even on the window ledge at night. Vernon said it was after the milk. I wasn't so sure.
This one felt different. Too quiet, too deliberate. I told myself I was imagining things. But still, when its gaze met mine, I couldn't shake the feeling that it knew more than a cat should.
There had been two cats mentioned that night, in the stories I remembered. First it was Professor McGonagall, the Cat Animagus, keeping watch.
Then there was another. The Potter family had a cat, Lily's ginger cat. But it was unaccounted for after that night.
I had suspicions whether this cat was the same one. Magical cats, which are half-Kneazles, are said to be intelligent beings. But I had other things to think about.
I had rejoined my classes at St. Gregory's Primary School, from where I was absent for a couple of weeks in November.
Being around so many children was strange. They talked about cartoons and biscuits and who had the best stickers. I nodded, smiled, and did my best to be an ordinary normal child.
I spent most evenings in my room, refining my control. From pencils to books, from floating to spinning, I learned to stretch my will like muscle. It wasn't easy—sometimes I'd exhaust myself so completely I fell asleep mid-levitation and woke up with a Lego piece stuck to my cheek.
But I loved it. Every second of it. The thrill of seeing something move because I willed it to—it was like rediscovering the world's hidden gears.
"Magic can do anything," I whispered one night, the pencil dancing lazily before me. "Anything at all."
And maybe that was why I laughed when the pencil started to circle faster, like it had taken offense at being underestimated.
"Alright, alright," I chuckled. "Point taken. You're the boss."
Downstairs, Harry's laughter echoed faintly, followed by Dudley's. For a moment, I just sat there, smiling. Magic wasn't something dark or distant. It was alive—in every movement, every flicker of wonder, every sound of life in this house that once felt so painfully normal.
I felt that soft rush of magic through my veins, that sense that the universe had a heartbeat, and I could hear it.
Magic wasn't in books or fancy wands. It was right here, humming in my blood, waiting to be shaped. And for the first time in both my lives, I felt completely, impossibly alive.
Nearing Christmas, things began to fall into rhythm. Petunia had gone slightly mad with decorations, as though compensating for something. Vernon grumbled about electricity bills. Dudley discovered the joy of tinsel and refused to let go of it for three days.
I'd barely settled back into the rhythm of school and secret practice when Mum announced that Aunt Marge would be visiting for Christmas.
Vernon's face lit up like a Christmas pudding set on fire, while mine probably did the opposite.
Aunt Marge was, as far as I remembered, the kind of woman who could make even the wallpaper feel nervous. Loud, opinionated, fond of dogs and sherry in equal measure. I'd only met her once before, when she'd loudly declared that "boys should be toughened up, not coddled like pudding."
I began mental preparations immediately. Step one: stay out of her sight. Step two: if unavoidable, act charming. Step three: make sure no pencils decide to float while she's around.
Aunt Marge's arrival would mean a house inspection worthy of the Ministry itself. If she so much as suspected something odd about Harry—or me—Christmas could turn into a disaster faster than you could say "hovering pudding."
So yes, while the rest of the family prepared for carols and mince pies, I was preparing for containment. Magical, emotional, and physical containment.
End of Chapter 7 — Magic in the Dursley's House