~ARCANMAGUS~
A Harry Potter Fanfiction
By: ReadingLibby25
Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable.
~TABLE OF CONTENTS~
Part One: Sparks . . . . . . Chapter 1
Part Two: Flames . . . . . Chapter ?
Epilogue . . . . . . . . . . . . Chapter ?
~AUTHOR'S NOTE~
Not my first fanfic, but this is the first fanfic on this account. For you, that means you can rest assured that I won't make any rookie mistakes . . . probably. For me, well, it means that I spend way too much time in the fictional world instead of the real one, but oh well.
This story will have different parts, but they won't be posted separately. It will just be one large fic that I decided to break into parts for the heck of it and because I can (creative liberty rules!). However, there will be a month or two of waiting between each part for suspense reasons (this is all assuming people even like this fic—pretty bold of me, actually).
In this fic, Harry is not a Horcrux. As for why, I simply felt the story was better without Harry being a Horcrux. He is still a Parseltongue, though. I'll provide an explanation for that in this fic, so don't worry. Also, the events leading up to this point were more or less canon, which is why this story begins shortly after Harry's sixteenth birthday.
Lastly, this is an AU. Things are going to be different. If you come across a sentence that makes you go, "Hmmm, that's not what happened," or "Hmmm, that seems a tiny bit OOC," just remember that it's AU. It's obviously going to have changes. That's just how it goes. The characters are still themselves, they only find themselves in different circumstances.
Sorry for the long author's note, please review, favorite, follow, and enjoy!
~PART ONE~
Chapter One
Harry Potter wasn't a stranger to odd things happening around him, but even with his peculiar experiences, a flaming tree limb falling from the sky was unusual.
It was a quiet night in Rasinarry Drive, with only the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of leaves in the wind as noise. The shutters of all the houses that lined the street were closed, their doors were locked, and their rooms were dark. The asphalt felt hard under Harry's feet, which were still tingling from sleep. The August breeze felt good on his sweaty face, and it cooled the metal of his glasses to a comfortable temperature. After a gut-clenching nightmare, the peaceful street was just what Harry needed to calm down, even if it exposed him to Death Eaters. Oh, well, he thought, doubting Voldemort would risk sending his minions to a place so heavily guarded by Order members. Harry was lucky, though. Tonight was Mundungus Fletcher's watch. He had at least four hours before Dung remembered, and hopefully he would be calmed down enough to be asleep by then.
Harry knew what had caused his nightmare—a horrible dream depicting the terrible deaths of his parents. He knew it had been Dumbledore, who had given Harry an hour-long lecture on the rubbish prophecy that seemed to be the only thing on people's minds right now. Even with bloody Voldemort's return being widely known, the Daily Prophet only ever printed articles on "the Chosen One." The entire wizarding world acted like it hadn't shunned Harry all last year, like they had always been on his side. It was sickening, and that was one of the only things he and his godfather agreed on.
Don't even get Harry started on his godfather. No, really. It wasn't good for his cholesterol.
The blazing branch interrupted Harry's angry thoughts. He let out a startled yelp and jumped backwards, as would be expected if a fiery tree limb suddenly fell from an oak tree. Harry immediately had his wand out and was scanning the deserted street for signs of Death Eaters.
A flash of black caught Harry's eye, and he whipped his head to the right. His narrowed eyes took in the scene with absolute scrutiny, and his thumping heart sounded like a drum in his ears.
Wand still brandished towards the place Harry had seen movement, he watched as a raccoon came crawling out of a pile of rubbish, cupcake wrapper clutched in its jaws. Harry let out a relieved gasp that quickly turned into a cough as smoke clogged his throat.
The burning branch was still in front of him, its flames somehow still flickering even after a strong gust of wind beat at its fiery leaves. Harry wondered how he could put it out without magic; the Trace would certainly pick up his Aquamenti charm. Then he wondered how the tree limb had caught fire in the first place. Death Eaters would surely have revealed themselves by now, so it couldn't have been them.
Tree branches don't just fall from their trees in fiery infernos, not even in Harry's world. And his world happened to have loads of strange things in it.
As Harry thought of different ways to put out this mysterious fire, the branch continued to burn brightly, showing no signs of stopping any time soon. Harry frowned; that was unusual. Shouldn't it have died down by now? Surely it would have . . .
Harry sighed and walked over to the nearest house, hoping its occupants, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, were sound asleep. He crept over to where they kept their hose and twisted the tap on. Still being as quiet as possible, Harry dragged the green hose over to the burning branch and pressed the nozzle. A fine spray of water doused the inexplicable fire, sending a cloud of warm steam into Harry's face, fogging up his glasses.
After returning the hose—and even making the effort to coil it back into its original neat pile—Harry dragged the soggy branch over to the side of the street, where the bin man could retrieve it tomorrow, on Monday.
Thoroughly exhausted, and with his nightmare long forgotten by that point, Harry cast one last quizzical look at the dripping tree limb before heading the opposite way down the street, back towards his house.
Number 2117, Raisinarry Drive, fondly dubbed "Broomhaven" by its occupants, was an unusual house. Odd folk always seemed to stop by it, most in peculiar robes, and its wraparound porch didn't quite fit in with the rest of the street's simple, nondescript houses. Its owners, a man and his godson, always kept strange things on their porch, from brooms with elegantly groomed bristles to odd balls that the none of the neighbors had ever seen used in any sport before. It had two stories, many windows—most in strange places—and a kempt layer of ivy on the side of the house.
To Harry, though, the house was perfect. Especially the ivy bit, which was what he used to sneak in and out of his window. He climbed up the leafy ladder, opened his bedroom window, and ducked through.
Harry locked his window and closed his red curtains, blocking out the moonlight that allowed him to see. In the dark, he sat on his window seat and pulled off his tennis shoes, throwing them carelessly onto the carpeted floor. He padded over to his bed by memory alone, though his eyes still strained to make out something in the blackness. Harry crawled into his bed but kept his covers off his body to cool down. He then pulled his wand out from his hoodie and placed it on his nightstand.
As his body relaxed, his mind wandered to the tree branch. How had it caught fire? It had to have been magic; things don't randomly and unexplainably catch fire through any mundane method. It must have been a witch or wizard, but Harry didn't think he had done it. Accidental magic had long since stopped happening to Harry. So what was it, then?
Harry fell asleep to these questions, but in his dreams, the tree branch was soon forgotten in the wake of the nonsensical fantasies dreams usually consist of, and even those went away once Harry fell into a deeper slumber.
Crouch Junior knelt at Voldemort's feet, kissing the hem of his robes with extreme reverence.
"Master, you have returned . . . You have returned . . ." whispered Crouch into the ground.
"All thanks to you, Barty," said Voldemort as he stepped over the groveling Crouch, his eyes not on the servant who had single-handedly brought him back to life, but on a very frightened Harry.
"Hello, Harry," purred Voldemort, red eyes glinting maliciously.
"Hello, Tom," replied Harry in as strong a voice as he could manage, though it still trembled.
"Call the others, Barty."
The smell of smoke woke Harry. As soon as his eyes flashed open, they started to sting as smoke entered them. Bright, orange light flooded them, and a scorching heat flared on his legs.
"Argh!" Harry yelped, struggling out of his sheets, which he now realized were on fire. He landed on his floor with a painful thud, still entangled in the flaming sheets. His vision was blurry from both the smoke and the absence of his glasses.
Cursing loudly, Harry reached frantically for his wand; to hell with the Trace, he was going to get burned badly if he didn't put this out. But as his shaking fingers closed around the wand, the fire miraculously stopped, and Harry was left with burnt sheets.
"The hell . . .?" muttered Harry, confused as to what had just happened.
The sound of feet running quickly up the steps caught Harry's attention. Swiftly, he struggled out of the blackened sheets and shoved them under the bed. His pajama pants had several holes in them, so he grabbed a green blanket from one of his armchairs and wrapped it around his waist.
Harry stumbled over to the door, tripping as his feet caught on the long blanket, and met his godfather just as he was opening the door.
"Harry?" said Sirius, a definite layer of grogginess in his voice.
"Yes?" answered Harry, trying to sound casual.
"What happened? And is that smoke I smell—?"
"No!" Harry interrupted quickly. "Er . . ."
"Harry, what the hell happened?" repeated Sirius, sounding more awake now and giving Harry a questioning look.
"Nothing, I'm fine, everything's good. Goodnight!" said Harry forcefully, giving his godfather an overly cheery smile before slamming the door.
An exasperated groan sounded from behind the closed door, but Harry heard Sirius making his way back down the stairs and into his bedroom. Harry spared a moment of relief that Sirius hadn't pried more before flicking his overhead lights on and looking back at his bed.
The maroon comforter had several small holes in it, but nothing too bad. Harry's dark blue pillow covers were fine, and the fitted sheet only had a sprinkling of ash on it.
It was the crispy, still slightly smoking sheets that peaked out from under his bed that worried Harry. The tree branch a couple days ago had been scary, yes, but Harry hadn't been in terrible danger. He had been, though, when his bedsheets mysteriously caught fire while he was sleeping. Had he not woken up, Harry himself could have been burned horribly, not just his striped pajama pants.
Had he done this? Magically starting fires in his sleep certainly wouldn't be the strangest thing that had happened to Harry (finding Colin Creevey, the Muggle-born, with pictures of the basilisk and petrified Muggle-borns would probably take the cake for that one) but it definitely was the one of the most dangerous things.
Entertaining the notion that he had somehow caused this, Harry took his ruined sheets in his hands and tried to light them on fire with his mind. He even muttered, "Incendio," the Fire-Making Spell. He only got ash on his hands and disappointment.
Sighing, Harry bundled up the destroyed sheets and walked over to his door, on his way to throw them out. His opened door flooded the hallway with light, and the hardwood floors felt cold to his bare feet. Harry crept down the creaky stairs, cursing silently whenever the old wood groaned especially loudly, and over to his garage door.
The garage was virtually useless. Harry still didn't know why the house had one, seeing as how it was built by wizards who could just Apparate or use the Floo for transportation. Cambridge had many such wizard-built houses—Harry had been to many of them—and none of them had garages. It was one of the things that had always bugged him, or at least confused him.
In any case, Sirius had long since turned the place into a wizard's cave, complete with a broom stand and a fireplace connected to the Floo network. He did keep a standard Muggle rubbish bin in there, though, and that is where Harry deposited the burnt sheets.
That done, Harry went back into the main house.
Broomhaven was very open and bright but obviously decorated with a man's taste. Throughout the years, several of Sirius's ex-girlfriends had tried to spruce things up, but it always reverted to its rug-ridden, wood-floored, perpetually cluttered self—just the way Harry liked it.
Deciding he could use a midnight—or rather, two-in-the-morning—snack, Harry walked past the stairs and down a hall in the direction of the kitchen. On his way, he corrected a crooked picture of him and Sirius playing Exploding Snap in the family room.
The kitchen was mostly dark, the only light coming from the kitchen coffeemaker and the microwave display. Harry walked past the black shape that was the island and over to the refrigerator. He poured himself a glass of milk and dug himself a Honeyduke's chocolate bar from the drawer dedicated to chocolate. Harry smirked down at the drawer filled with chocolate bar after chocolate bar; some things, he and Sirius agreed on wholeheartedly.
Just not most things.
Once he finished his chocolate bar, Harry walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Back in is room, he turned the ceiling lights off and got into bed. Ash rubbed against his legs and Harry groaned loudly. Muttering curse words under his breath, he flipped the coverlet off his body and simply pulled the fitted sheets off the mattress. Still cursing softly, Harry dragged the sheets over to his closet and dropped them on the floor. He then washed his hands in the en suite bathroom, afterwards snatching the green blanket from before off the floor, and crashed onto his bare mattress.
As tired as he was, Harry didn't mind that his only cover was a thin blanket, and he soon fell into a deep sleep, with dreams that questioned the burning sheets.
Sunlight squeezed through Harry's cracked lids, waking him with a sharp prick of light. He flew open his eyes, and consequently had to spend several seconds blinking rapidly to adjust to the bright illumination. Once Harry could open his eyes without them stinging, he glanced at his digital alarm clock. The red numbers showed the time to be just after ten in the morning.
He sat up, at first confused as to why his bedsheets and bedspread were missing. Soon, though, the night's events flooded his mind, and Harry was wondering how the sheets had caught fire. Worrying about it, too, as one does when their sheets inexplicable catch fire while they sleep.
Sighing, Harry realized he had better make his bed up again before Sirius came in, demanding Harry get up and go play Quidditch with him. Harry loved Quidditch—he was the Seeker on his House's team—but he didn't feel like getting up and immediately hoping on a broom. Sirius, forever child that he was, did. Harry thought it was distinctly unfair that someone who was so immature at times could boss him around.
In any case, he had to put some new sheets on the bed, so Harry rubbed the sleep out of his eye and walked out of the room. Across the hall was a linen closet that, for whatever reason, had more spare Quidditch supplies than actual linen. Throwing aside a Snitch with a broken wing, Harry dug out some brown-gold sheets. The broken Snitch flew haphazardly around the hall in circles, glinting gold in the sunlight. Harry looked at it for a bit before snatching it smoothly out of the air and tossing it back into the linen closet. He then closed the door shut with his foot and walked back into his room.
Harry wasn't the neatest person, so the sheets definitely left some things desired. One side was shorter than the other, and he was pretty sure he had put them on sideways, but it was good enough. Harry brushed off the maroon bedspread, scattering minuscule flecks of ash onto his carpet, before putting that on the bed, too. In hindsight, Sirius had been betting a lot on Harry being put into Gryffindor. His walls were a golden brown, his curtains were red, and his furniture was made mostly out of dark wood. Luckily for Harry, he had been sorted into Gryffindor, so he could say the color scheme was House pride, but it had been decorated this way before Sirius had even told him about Hogwarts.
A nagging thought in the back of Harry's mind brought him out of his reverie. The sheets catching fire didn't have any other explanation than Harry magically lighting them on fire. Broomhaven had powerful wards, courtesy of one prophecy-obsessed headmaster, so no Death Eaters could have gotten in and lit them. He highly, highly doubted Sirius would have done it, not even as a sick prank. His godfather was fed up with Harry's constant cheek and never-ending rebellious streak, for sure, but he would never set his bedsheets on fire. Harry thought Sirius's annoyance at his attitude a bit uncalled for as it was, never mind spelling sheets to catch fire in the dead of the night.
No, it had to have been Harry. But I'm too old for accidental magic, and the Ministry would have surely picked up on it anyway, he thought, extremely perplexed.
The smell of burnt food shook Harry out of his questions and made his mouth water. That's right, Harry recalled. This is Sirius's day off. Growing up with Sirius's bad cooking, he had long since gotten used to the blackened edges present in nearly all his godfather's meals.
Harry was halfway down the steps before he glanced at his pants. The flames had licked at his legs enough to burn a few holes in them, though thankfully hadn't touched his skin. Letting out an irritated breath, Harry trudged back up the stairs to change.
A few moments later, he was in new pants and was walking down the steps again. On the ground level, Harry tripped and caught himself on the half wall next to their front door. A shoe had made him stumble, so Harry picked it up and chucked it underneath the shoe bench that doubled as the everything-I'm-too-lazy-to-properly-put-away bench.
In the kitchen, Sirius was making fried eggs. The family owl, Fleaumont (after Harry's grandfather), sat on his perch, colorful feathers preened to a shine. Burned bacon lay on a plate on the counter; Harry picked up a piece on his way into the kitchen.
"'Morning, Prongslet," greeted Sirius.
"'Morning," replied Harry, giving his godfather a smile.
"Brilliant, no snarky remark today. That's progress!" said Sirius cheerfully, grinning at Harry.
Harry's smile faded into a flat look and he took a bite out of his piece of bacon, managing to convey annoyance as he chewed.
Sirius chuckled.
"Hey, Harry, what was last night about?" he asked, breaking the egg yolk as he flipped it over. He frowned slightly into the pan at his failed egg flip.
"Nightmare," replied Harry, sitting down at the breakfast bar.
"Nightmare," repeated Sirius dryly. "Must have been one hell of a dream, then, what with all that noise."
"It was the graveyard," said Harry quietly.
Immediately, Sirius flinched guiltily and walked over to give Harry's arm a squeeze. Harry glanced once at his godfather's comforting hand before saying, "It's fine, Sirius."
Sirius looked like he wanted to disagree with Harry but didn't get the chance to, because at that very moment, a delivery owl flew in through the open window and landed next to Harry.
"It's the Daily Prophet," said Harry, eyeing the scroll clutched in the barn owl's talons.
Sirius nodded and rummaged around in his pocket for a Knut. Coming out empty-handed, he rolled open a wooden drawer filled with random bits and bobs. After about five seconds, he fished out a small coin and tossed it to Harry, who caught it effortlessly.
"Nice catch," commented Sirius before apparently remembering the eggs and looking at the pan with apprehensive eyes.
"Thanks," answered Harry, opening the tiny leather pouch tied to the owl's leg and dropping the Knut in it. The owl, somehow conveying vexation on its feathered face, released the rolled-up Daily Prophet, and flew out of the kitchen in a huff, no doubt mad about being delayed for so long. Fleaumont watched the delivery owl leave with an upturned beak, likely upset by the audacity of the owl for appearing annoyed.
"We should really keep a jar of Knuts around here somewhere," said Harry, handing Fleaumont a piece of bacon.
Sirius grunted his agreement as he shoveled burnt eggs onto Harry's plate.
"Great eggs," remarked Harry sarcastically.
"Shut it, you," said Sirius.
Harry smirked as he raised his fork to his mouth, but it turned into a grimace as he read the Daily Prophet's headline.
"What?" asked Sirius.
"Bloody Voldemort," muttered Harry, scowling distastefully at the newspaper.
"Hand that over," demanded Sirius.
Harry complied, stabbing his eggs with unnecessary violence.
"Amycus Carrow on the Wizengamot? The Ministry are bloody idiots," said Sirius, shaking.
"You're an Auror," Harry pointed out.
Sirius shot him a look but continued reading the Daily Prophet. "He's got no brains, that one. He was a couple years below me in Hogwarts, and I don't think I've ever met someone more stupid. Simply there to put in the old worm's vote."
"I know, Sirius," said Harry. Honestly, did the man think him incompetent?
"I know you know, Harry," said Sirius tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Harry frowned; why did he have to act like Harry had done something wrong and had utterly exhausted him?
"I'm going to get dressed," announced Harry, eating the last bit of his eggs and putting his plate in the sink.
Sirius nodded. "Quidditch later?" he asked hopefully.
"Sure," said Harry, already out of the kitchen.
He could practically hear his godfather's beam.
Harry got ready for the day quickly. Just as he grabbed his Firebolt from its place leaning against his bookshelf, he caught sight of a speck of ash on the carpet, reminding him of the sheet incident.
He frowned thoughtfully at the speckle of gray ash as confused questions bounced around in his mind once again. With trepidation, Harry walked over to his sock drawer and dug around for a single sock. He had to know if it was him who had, somehow, set his sheets ablaze.
"Er . . . Incendio!" cast Harry, wand out of his hand. Nothing happened. The sock remained perfectly normal.
Shaking his head, Harry tossed it back into his drawer and grabbed his broomstick, heading out of his room.
Tromping down the stairs, Harry spotted a Snitch floating near the ceiling. Cautiously, he swung his legs over his broom and lifted off the ground. This Snitch was old, so it wasn't going to be as fast as a newer one. Still, Harry didn't want to crash into the glass chandelier right next to him, so he ascended with precaution.
The Snitch darted sideways, but Harry's palm was already waiting for it. The Snitch squirmed in his hand the whole way down to the ground before Harry shoved it in the glass jar they used for stray Snitches. It was charmed to let Snitches in, but to prevent them from flying out. A good eight of them flitted around in there at the moment.
"You ready to be beaten, Prongslet?" came a voice from behind Harry.
Harry turned to face his godfather. "I don't get beaten, old man," he said.
"Now you've made it personal," said Sirius.
Broomhaven was very much a house with spells woven into every wooden beam. Its backyard was no different. Over the years, Sirius had placed so many Non-Detectable Extension Charms, Muggle-Obscuring Spells, Permanent-Lighting Charms, and Gravity-Reducing Enchantments that it had turned into a place built almost solely of magic. A variety of colorful lights dotted the hedges, mini Quidditch hoops stood tall and proud in the back, and those gravity enchantments kept falling off your broom from seriously injurious.
Harry and Sirius adored it, even if the palpable magic always made them sneeze.
Sirius had brought out his Nimbus 2002, a broom he preferred over all others, including Harry's Firebolt. He said it was because the maneuverability was phenomenal, but Harry knew better. It was because it was the wickedest, sleekest, and handsomest broom ever. I bet Sirius thinks he looks like a real ladies' man with that thing, Harry thought to himself as he watched his godfather strut onto the pitch.
But Harry's broom was fast.
They both straddled their brooms and kicked off the ground, Sirius holding the Quaffle and Harry bracing himself to start flying around like a madman.
Sirius made several feints before finally chucking the ball upwards. Harry flew straight up and caught it, but Sirius punched it out of his arms and grabbed it himself. They grappled with it for a while before Harry managed to wrestle it from Sirius's iron grip and dash towards the hoops to throw it in.
On his way, Sirius intercepted him and snatched the Quaffle right out of his hands, smirking.
"That's your weakness, Harry, you can't throw the Quaffle from far away, you always fly towards the goals," Sirius hollered at Harry playfully.
Scowling, Harry yelled, "Well, I'm a bloody Seeker, not a Chaser!"
"Your dad had the same problem!" continued Sirius as he flitted away from Harry.
Harry stopped midflight. He used to be proud of being compared to his dad, but that was before it got to a point where it seemed he would forever be living in his shadow, at least in Sirius's eyes. From before clear memory, Sirius had commented on Harry's resemblance or dissemblance to James. It was constant. He knew Sirius likely didn't mean to upset him, but that just made it worse. How could he think that it wouldn't upset Harry to be relentlessly compared to his long-murdered father? How could he not notice it upset Harry?
Wordlessly, Harry dived to the ground before pulling up and gliding through the open back doors, ignoring Sirius's questioning shouts.
Harry went up the stairs to shower, frustrated with his godfather, quite the familiar feeling nowadays.
A loud knock interrupted Harry's broom polishing. His Firebolt had gone a bit dull, so he had taken one of his many Broom Servicing Kits and buffed the smooth wood to a glossy shine.
"Harry? Please come out," sounded Sirius's voice from the other side of the door.
Sensing the seriousness in his godfather's voice, Harry quickly stood from his window seat and rushed over to his bedroom door.
"What's happened?" he asked Sirius as he opened the door.
"Harry, take a seat," said Sirius quietly, a look of sadness on his face.
"Tell me what happened," said Harry firmly, crossing his arms stubbornly.
Sirius gave him a long look before taking in a deep breath.
"You remember how Jonathon Spinnet replaced Barty Crouch Senior as Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation?"
Harry nodded his head, eyes scanning his godfather's shadowed face.
"The Order just alerted me that Death Eaters showed up to his house, demanding that he give up his position. When he refused, they . . ."
"No," said Harry. "They didn't kill him, did they?" he asked, already fearing Sirius's answer. Mr. Spinnet was his teammate Alicia's father. Oh, poor Alicia, Harry thought, his heart plummeting for his friend.
"No, Harry, no, Mr. Spinnet's alive," said Sirius hurriedly. "The Death Eaters didn't kill him . . . they—" Sirius closed his eyes tightly before forcing them open, "—they murdered Alica."
Harry's breath seemingly ripped out of his lungs—Alica's dead, no that can't be—he felt as though he was falling through the floor; his brain seemed to run into a brick wall . . .
"Murdered?" he croaked.
"Oh, Harry," breathed Sirius, wrapping his arms around Harry tightly. "I'm so sorry."
"Alicia's dead?" mumbled Harry into his godfather's chest.
"Yes, Harry, the Order just sent me the message," replied Sirius delicately, as though Harry was a fragile thing.
Harry stumbled backwards, tears pooling in his eyes. "I want to be alone right now, Sirius," he told his godfather, hoping that Sirius wouldn't try to argue with him. "Please."
Sirius debated with himself for a few seconds before nodding his head. "Sit down, Harry," he commanded as he left the doorway.
Harry didn't make it to the armchair; he sank to the floor. A memory surfaced in his numb mind of him, a daring second-year, asking Alicia out on Ron's dare. He remembered her laugh and gentle rejection.
Harry pressed the crook of his elbow to his mouth and screamed into it, frustration and fury at Voldemort cracking his strangled voice.
Heat washed over Harry, and the crackle of flames made him glance up panickily.
His curtains were on fire.
"What the hell?!" screeched Harry, fumbling backwards to get away from the extreme heat.
In a mad effort to put out the flames, Harry yanked down the curtains, rod and all, and vigorously stomped on them, using a thick quilt conveniently laying on the window seat to protect his bare feet from the fire. A small flicker a flame survived, but it isn't long before Harry frustratingly snuffed that one out, too.
"What the hell?" repeated Harry, staring hopelessly at the ruined curtains.
Without conscious thought, he crossed over to his door and pushed it shut. He leaned against the wood and slid down to a sitting position, knees tucked under his trembling arms.
I've got to be the one doing this, Harry realized with bewilderment. But how?
Grumbling that his life was too complicated, Harry made his way back over to the smoking curtains.
"Light fire," he commanded to the curtains, feeling silly—even more so when nothing happened. Harry let out a puzzled huff.
"Light fire," he repeated to no avail.
Harry let out a sort of bubbly chuckle. "I can't just keep setting random things on fire at random . . . random times," he said to himself, coming to a revelation mid-sentence.
It hadn't been random times . . . connecting all three incidents, Harry realized he had been emotional every time something had miraculously caught fire out of thin air. But that didn't explain how Harry did it, or how the Trace didn't pick up on it.
Keeping that thought in mind, Harry tore out a page from a book he had plucked from his bookshelf (he could almost hear his friend Hermione's cry of outrage) and crumpled it into a ball in his hand. Focusing only on angry thoughts—a certain Draco Malfoy immediately came to mind—Harry glared commandingly at the ball of paper, needing to know that he wasn't mental, and he actually was setting things on fire.
For a few moments, the wad of paper remained the same. But then, slowly, flames spread from the center outwards, eating up the paper and leaving behind blackened ash in Harry's hand.
"Merlin's bloodiest pants," he whispered, shock coating his voice thickly.
The crumpled ball of paper turned to sooty ash and the fire flickered away into nothing, with Harry staring widely at his palm the whole time.
"What?" gasped Harry, brows furrowed in intense confusion and hand stinging from the flames.
There was no denying it; Harry had—impossibly—set fire to paper with nothing more than his angry thoughts.
But . . . how?
Pppppppppppppp