Chapter Four
The Magic of Wandless Magic

The rest of the year was quiet - Harry, surprisingly, spent most of the time studying magic, either tossing spells at Ron and Hermione (and sometimes the twins and Ginny, too), or learning as much as she could from Cecilia.

Gryffindor scraped a narrow win against Hufflepuff, and by the time the Ravenclaw match came around, they were bound to win the Quidditch Cup, unless they lost by 130 points. At that point, all Harry had to do was keep Cho Chang off the Snitch long enough for Gryffindor's superior Chaser team to pull ahead.

For the first time since Charlie Weasley graduated, the Cup sat in McGonagall's office.

Harry was legitimately surprised that it was such a quiet year. Other than Malfoy attempting to corner her for a beating, the only highlight of the year came when Lockhart announced that he intended to return as Defense Professor again next year. Ron groaned, and even Hermione wasn't as pleased as she might have been at the beginning of the year.

The next day, he slipped and cracked his head on the edge of his tub. He'd not been found for hours, but Dumbledore announced at dinner that evening that he could not remember anything of the last few years, and would likely be unable to return as Defense teacher.

This announcement was met with more cheers than were perhaps entirely appropriate.

When the sign-ups for next year's classes came around, Harry chose Care of Magical Creatures, a class she would share with Hermione and Ron, and Ancient Runes, after Cecilia showed her something called Runic Casting, a way of scribing runes in the air to cast spells. It wasn't really much like wand magic - it was older, and much more dangerous.

But, sooner than Harry would have liked, she was back, stepping through the door of Privet Drive. She had Cecilia's diary tucked into one of her pockets - it was far too valuable to risk the Dursleys locking it away, unlike everything else.

She ducked into her room, and shut the door, curling up on the bed. It was the first day back - if she hid, and pretended that she wasn't there, hopefully the Dursleys would be content to pretend that she didn't exist, as well, at least until dinnertime.

Hey, Cecilia.

I take it you're no longer at Hogwarts, then?

Yeah, Harry wrote. I hate it here. The Dursleys hate magic, and they've locked my trunk and the rest of my school supplies away in the cupboard under the stairs.

That's despicable.

I was sort of hoping that you could show me how to pick locks.

I can show you how to do that, yes, but I can also show you much, much more. By the time I was old enough to attend Hogwarts, I could move things, cause pain, tell when people were lying, and speak to snakes. If you want them to leave you alone, you must become proficient in at least the first, likely the first two.

Harry grinned. I can talk to snakes. I set a boa constrictor on my cousin once. It was great.

…

For the longest time, the Diary said nothing. Harry wondered if she'd said something wrong. Talking to snakes wasn't that weird, right? She really wasn't sure what to do if Cecilia rejected her at this point.

I'm sorry, she wrote.

You have nothing to be sorry for. I've just never met another Parselmouth in Britain before. It's an honor. For once, Cecilia's impeccable handwriting was shaky, and loose.

What?

It's an incredibly rare gift, one that is passed through blood. This means… we're related.

Oh, Harry wrote. How?

I don't know. I suppose it's possible that we aren't, but Salazar Slytherin was famous for his ability to talk to snakes. That's why the symbol of Slytherin house is a snake. If you can as well, it's likely that you're related to him, just as I am.

Oh, Harry wrote again. I'm glad. I've never had family that I've been pleased to have been related to.

Me neither, Cecilia agreed. I wouldn't be embarrassed to acknowledge you.

Gee, thanks.

I suppose it's possible that we're not. I would be surprised if you weren't, at least indirectly. As a Potter, it is statistically unlikely that at least some trace of his bloodline hasn't found its way into you, in a thousand years.

I am probably more closely related to him - I found out in my fifth year that I am the last surviving member of a family that was well-known for being descendants of Slytherin. But, it's also possible that your talent comes from elsewhere - you're definitely dark-skinned enough to have a close ancestor, if not a parent, from most of the places where Parselmouths are relatively common - India, Southeast Asia, and Egypt.

My father has the same color skin as me, Harry wrote back. She knew that from the picture book Hagrid had gotten her at the end of last year.

Interesting. I didn't know anything about the Potters marrying outside of Britain. But that's not in any way a guarantee, genetics can be weird sometimes, and I confess that I didn't know any Potters in school, so I was unlikely to have met them. And of course, you could just have a recent ancestor from those places, and your Parseltongue comes from Slytherin. Or you could have some Black in you - I think there was something about a Black marrying into the Potters? I'm not sure. Cecilia didn't keep up with news much, after she left Britain, but you hear things, sometimes. They have some talent for Parseltongue, so you could have gotten it there.

Cecilia visibly cut herself off. I digress. There's no way to know for certain. Either way, we are both Parselmouths. I am very pleased. Does anyone know that you are?

No one. My cousin might suspect, but he's a Muggle, so he doesn't count. Why?

I was just worried - In Britain, Parseltongue is considered a dark talent. The reasoning for this is based entirely on uninformed prejudice, but it is still something you will likely have to deal with if your talent becomes common knowledge.

Harry opened and closed her mouth, soundlessly. That's stupid. By any of the definitions you offered, there's no way it's dark magic. I was born with it - is there, like, some powerful dark spell that you can only cast by using it?

No. As far as I am aware - and Cecilia travelled extensively in India and Persia, to many places where the gift is common - it is useful in a few healing rituals, and that is it. I suppose it also is very helpful for creating passwords, as well.

That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard.

I agree. Now, perhaps you understand a bit more about why I find the majority of common discourse on dark magic to be profoundly unsatisfying.

Harry frowed. But, I don't - I understand you think that stuff like Parseltongue shouldn't be dark magic, but what about that Imperius Curse? or about - I read in Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts that the Dark Arts twist your mind, and that they're addictive.

Harry, that book is full of propaganda. I think spells like the Imperius should be illegal, but I also think that love potions should be illegal - they both take away someone else's free will. However, one is a potion and the other is a dark curse, so only one of them is outlawed by the Ministry. I still think that hurting other people, or taking away their free will should be illegal, but I fundamentally disagree with the way the Ministry chooses to regulate those things.

Alright, Harry said.

To your other concern, there is slightly more substance. I think what that book is referring to is the way that most powerful magical spells are gratifying to cast - in essence, it feels very good to cast powerful spells, much more so than simple ones. This leads most people, when they start using spells like the Cruciatus, to be more likely to use them in the future. And yes, that can create a strong feedback loop - the better it feels to cast magic, the more you are likely to use it. However, this addiction is merely psychosomatic - there is no physical component at all, and the only withdrawal that a witch or wizard might feel is in their own heads.

This results in people who outwardly look as if they have their minds twisted, and are addicted to using those spells. This, however, is not a guaranteed outcome. Like most things in magic, it's a question of willpower. If you are sufficiently mentally disciplined, you can ignore the feelings that those spells give you. That's all it is - it heightens the feelings that are already present, but it does not lead to someone becoming a raving psychopath simply by using these spells.

In fact, I would argue that decriminalization of these spells would help the people who use them become less dangerous to society, because I believe the antisocial behavior displayed by people who can use dark magic is as much or more of a product of the stigma behind them as it is the effects of the spells themselves.

Harry asked, Is that something you've statistically proven, or is that just a theory?

You are correct. That is only a theory. However, it is not a theory that I have come up with in a vacuum - it is the result of Cecilia's travels to many other countries, and observing the differences in how they regulate magic, as well as researching a number of similar concepts in Muggle philosophy and criminology. Stigmatizing dark magic in this way is just another way of controlling people - crazy people have no power, after all. In fact, 'crazy people have no power' is a very simplified summation of a book called Folie et Déraison: Histoire de la folie à l'âge classique, written by a muggle french philosopher. His theories on systemic oppression are fascinating - all of his books are.

Oh. Why haven't you written a bunch of books and become Minister of Magic, then?

I wish I knew. Harry immediately felt a pang of regret, at that statement.

I'm sorry.

It's alright, Cecilia reassured her. I have no idea what happened to my original. The last time she wrote in the Diary was over thirty years ago - in 1958. But we've gotten off-topic. Think on what I have said, Harry, but first - would you like to learn how to open a lock the Muggle, or the magical way?

Magic, please. I already know how to do it the Muggle way.

Good. To explain, the technique for wandless magic is very simple: forget everything - forget incantations, forget wand movements, forget that spells exist at all. To do this, you must influence the world through the power of your will alone. To cast a shield, build a wall with your will between you and the incoming spell. To move something, reach out with your mind and move it through sheer determination.

Is it really that easy?

No. It is simple, but it is by no means easy. However, moving a lock is comparatively unchallenging - a nudge, inside the mechanism, should be enough. That's a good place to start. All magic is willpower, Harry. Wandless magic is just an extension of this maxim.

Okay. I'll give it a try. Now all she had to do was wait.

Harry spent the next few days attempting to make magic happen as much as she could. It was not as simple as sitting alone in a dark corner, attempting to move things with her mind. That, by itself, wasn't enough.

Not long after she started, she realized that wandless magic needed something to latch onto, both figuratively and literally. It wasn't enough to sit with a small spoon and attempt to move it with her mind, because, when she was alone, she didn't need to move that spoon with her mind. It was too far removed, from what she wanted it for. To get it to work, she theorized that she'd need to be in the moment where it was necessary.

This was easier said than done. Harry could hardly sit in the front hall, staring at the lock on the cupboard under the stairs for hour on end. The Dursleys were already suspicious of her, from glancing at it whenever she went by.

So, after conferring with Cecilia, Harry adjusted her approach. 'This kind of magic will only arise from necessity, Harry. Your analysis of why you couldn't achieve it is spot on,' she'd said. This was easier said than done, however.

Harry was spending a lot of time in the kitchen, lately. This was because the Dursleys had gotten Dudley an extra television set for the kitchen, since he was complaining about the walk between the couch and the refrigerator. So, Dudley spent most of the summer in the kitchen, getting fatter.

Thus, Harry spent a lot of time in the kitchen, trying to collapse Dudley's chair. Of course, the Dursleys found this suspicious, but they couldn't possibly guess what she was actually up to, so, instead, they shot her searching looks every time they came in.

However, since she didn't make much noise, or really cause trouble at all, her presence became unremarkable.

Until, of course, Harry figured it out.

She had to want it. Not just wish it could happen, not just feel as if it might be helpful. Harry had to need, it had to feel, completely, with every fiber of her being that it was necessary for the chair to break.

Harry was usually a quiet, mild-mannered person, but to achieve this, she had to make herself really want something nasty to happen to Dudley. It wasn't quite as simple as just wishing him ill, or wanting him to leave her alone. She spent hours upon hours, dwelling on how fat, how stupid, and how cruel he was.

It took two whole weeks, but one lazy afternoon, Harry looked at Dudley, perched in his thin, wooden chair, stuffing his face, five chins wobbling, and broke the chair from under him.

With an enormous crack, the chair fell, and he tipped over himself, and tumbled to the floor, like an enormous bowling ball falling into a gutter.

Harry grinned - she felt elated, she felt powerful, like the whole world was at her fingertips. With a glance over at the TV, it tumbled from its perch, smashing onto the floor.

"GIRL!" Uncle Vernon roared. She looked over at him, standing in the doorway, and realized how this must look. She was sitting there, wide smile on her face, while Dudley wailed on the floor, chair collapsed under him, and the TV smashed onto the floor. "How dare you!"

He lumbered over, and lifted her by the scruff of her neck, and dragged her from the room. She tried to focus on the heady, sick feeling in her chest, and make him drop her, but he wouldn't let her concentrate, dragging her along, tugging and jostling her as roughly as he could.

He practically threw her into the room. "And stay there!" he roared.

Harry gingerly picked herself up, and then collapsed onto the bed, taking the Diary out from underneath the covers.

I did it, she wrote.

You did? That's wonderful. Tell me about it.

I made Dudley's chair collapse from under him. It felt wonderful. I can hardly describe it - like I was powerful, like I could do anything. I really had to hate him, though.

Yes, that's not surprising. Powerful emotion will serve you well here. You will want to focus on that feeling - that feeling of strength, of feeling as if you are teetering on the edge of control. If you can repeat that, you can master this skill.

I am impressed, Harry. I did not expect you to be able to master it this quickly. Well done.

Harry glowed with pride. Thanks. The Ministry didn't send an owl, either.

Of course they didn't. They think it's accidental magic, the fools.

Harry grinned. This was shaping up to be a much nicer summer than the last.

Uncle Vernon was not quite as stupid as he looked. He kept a very close watch on Harry, in the next few days. Harry, of course, knew that it was best not to give the Dursleys any reason to suspect her, so she went along with the gardening, and the hoovering, and the laundry with her usual dry resignation. When he turned his back, however, she dug deep into her resentment and tried to capture that hot, slick, sick, feeling, when she was capable of doing magic.

She tripped him, she enchanted the fridge and the drawers to jab him in the side, and she knocked things out of his hands, whenever she could. In the few days since she had figured out the secret to the magic, Vernon had knocked her around her more times than the entire last summer combined. He never really hit her, not with the full force of his body, but rather, he casually whacked or pushed her, enough to hurt, but not to leave a mark.

Petunia, too, noticed her shoes shrinking, her food spoiling, and her garden wilting. She wasn't as physical as Vernon, but she wasn't shy about summoning him if she suspected Harry of something.

Finally, Harry offered an ultimatum: no more funny business, if they finally treated her like a decent human being. After a few days of grumbling, and worse harassment, they gave in - Petunia took her shopping, and stopped asking her to do chores, and fed her as much as she liked.

Of course, she should have seen it coming. Harry was in the backyard sitting on the bench near the back garden. Dudley had ambled up, intent on harassing her. The deal didn't include him, so he hadn't quite gotten the message yet. Like most lessons, it needed reteaching frequently. She tripped Dudley so that he spilled his cone all over his front. He started to cry, and ran off to find his parents.

Uncle Vernon returned, with two strange people: a man in a suit, and a man wearing a dress shirt and slacks. The suited man was tall, and thin, with black hair that was graying at his temples and a leather briefcase. The other man was shorter, stouted, and had a shock of rich brown hair.

"This is her," Vernon grunted.

"Hello, Harriet," the suited man said. "I'm Dr. Fitzsimmons. This is Dr. James." He indicated the other man. "Can I sit?"

Harry looked at Uncle Vernon. There was something cruel and dangerous in his eyes. She felt a curl of fear, easing down her back.

"Alright," she agreed.

The man stepped forward, and awkwardly folded himself to sit beside her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. His tone was mild, but Harry didn't trust it one bit.

She just shrugged.

"I'm going to need an answer, Harriet," he said.

"Why are you asking?"

Something closed off, behind his eyes. "There's nothing to worry about." That statement only made her more nervous. "Your uncle's just been concerned about you."

Harry glared over at Uncle Vernon. "Whatever he's said, it's not true."

"Why do you say that, Harriet?" he asked, his tone still mild.

There were a million reasons, but not all of them would make sense to this man. "He hates me. If he says he's concerned about me, it's because he's got some plan to get rid of me. He'll say anything."

"Why do you think your uncle hates you?"

Harry rolled her eyes. "Why don't you ask him?"

"Harry's convinced that Petunia and I hate her because she's a witch," Uncle Vernon said. "We've tried - we took her in, and we treat her the same as Dudley, but we're not sure what else to do."

"Liar," Harry hissed.

"What do you think he's lying about, Harriet?" Fitzsimmons asked. Harry hated the way he said her name - like she was some wild beast liable to snap and try to maul him at any moment. Cecilia said her name slowly, affectionately, like she was special.

"He's always favored Dudley more!" she snapped. "Until I was eleven I slept in the cupboard under the stairs, and they made me wear all of Dudley's old clothes, and do all the chores and make them breakfast every morning."

For a long moment, no one said anything.

To Harry's horror, the first one to break the silence was Vernon. "Would you like to see her room? And the cupboard under the stairs? We have nothing to hide."

"We would love to," Fitzsimmons said.

Harry had spent the morning outside. None of the Dursleys had disturbed her, until Dudley, and she thought that was a bit weird, but she never expected anything like this. Uncle Vernon led the three of them through the house - showed them a dusty cupboard full of perfectly normal, mundane things, with no evidence of any child living there and her room, which was filled with a collection of perfectly normal, girly things - all of her school things were still carefully locked in her trunk, away from prying eyes.

Even the locks from last summer were gone. Harry might have been impressed, if it wasn't so obviously designed to set her up.

They ended up in the living room - Harry didn't know how the Dursleys had done it, but the storm of photos of only Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were gone - in their place, there were three tasteful photos of all four of them - Harry looking happy, nudged between Vernon and Dudley.

Harry huddled into the armchair, feeling a low, terrified curling in her gut. "So, that's your game," she said, injecting as much hatred into her voice as possible. "You're saying I'm crazy."

Vernon's concerned expression didn't change. "We just want you to be well, Harry."

"Harriet," Fitzsimmons said, his unnervingly mild tone still present. He lounged on the couch, hands at his sides. "I think it's time for some answers. How are you feeling today?"

"Betrayed," Harry said. "Angry."

"Why is that?"

"Because my uncle is trying to have me bloody sectioned!" she shouted. "He hates me! He hated my parents! Aunt Petunia was always jealous of my mum-" she cut herself off, before she said anything else. She couldn't explain anything about magic, because he'd already claimed that she was delusional.

"Why was your aunt jealous of your mother, Harriet?" Fitzsimmons asked.

"Mum was prettier and more popular," Harry said, snarling. "Aunt Petunia always talks about it - about how my mum dated foreigners, like my dad wasn't British, because of his skin. And they're pretending, not to care. But they do! You don't want to hear what they call me, sometimes - no one at school cares, what I look like!"

"Alright," he acquiesced, looking a little uncomfortable. "Have you been thinking about hurting people, lately? Like your uncle, or your cousin?"

It was all she'd been thinking about, to try and get her magic to work. "No."

"How about hurting yourself?"

"No." That answer was even true, too.

"How about taking me through your daily routine?" He picked up his right leg, and folded it across his knee.

Harry eyed him. She shrugged.

"I don't do very much. Mostly just homework, or sitting and contemplating the mysteries of the universe."

"Thank you, Harriet. Now, can you tell me about your school? Your uncle has told us that you attend a boarding school in Scotland."

Harry shrugged again. "It's school. I get decent grades, have plenty of friends. What else is there to say?"

"Do you like it there?"

"I stay every Christmas and Easter, and dread the summers. I can't wait to go back."

"Why is that, Harriet?" Fitzsimmons asked.

"Because they hate me. This summer's been better, because-"

"Yes?"

Harry shrugged again.

"Hariet, I want to help you. I can't help you if you lie to me."

"I'm not the one who's lying!" she shouted.

Fitzsimmons gestured around. "We've seen some evidence that you're not being truthful with us already."

Harry huffed. "You don't want to help me. You're just here because Vernon just wants me gone, since he can't control me anymore."

"Why can't your uncle control you anymore?"

"I'm not afraid of him anymore," she said, as if he was thick.

"Why?"

"I dunno," Harry said. "Sometimes that happens, you know, when you grow up."

Uncle Vernon cleared his throat. The sound filled Harry with a sick, horrified feeling of foreboding. Magic wouldn't help her here, though.

"I think I can shed some light on that. I called you here, Doctor, because she's become increasingly erratic and violent." He unbuttoned his shirt, leaving him in a vest top, showing a number of bruises on his arms and back. He lifted up his top, too, and showed off a large, yellow bruise on his side.

Harry couldn't help the growl that rumbled in her throat. How dare he - he was trying to paint her as psychotic. Her fists were clenched so tightly, she could feel pain from her nails digging into her palms.

"Don't you dare, you miserable-"

"I don't really know what to do, Doctor," he cut her off. "It seems to be tied with what she calls her 'magic.' She attacks me, or her cousin, and calls it magic."

"He's lying!" Harry shouted. She could feel herself shaking with anger, now - the urge to snap Vernon's pudgy bones was almost overwhelming, but there were muggles, she had to hold back. "He's just trying to get rid of me! He just wants to give his fat pig of a son his second bedroom back!"

"How does the magic work, then?" he asked.

Harry rolled her eyes. "As if I'm going to tell you."

"So you admit that you have magic, then?"

"No!" Harry yelled.

"Why are you shouting?" Fitzsimmons asked, tone still just as mild. "If there is no magic, there's nothing to be upset about."

Harry forced herself to say nothing, because any response at this point was a losing one. She fisted her hands in her shorts, and stared at the floor.

"Harriet, you can tell us. I just want to understand - I promise that none of us will repeat what we hear."

She forced herself to stay calm, and think about talking to Cecilia. Cecilia always made her feel better - she'd never betrayed her, like pigshit Vernon.

"Harriet, I need you to answer me," Fitzsimmons said, his voice still full of that damnable pseudo-calm.

Harry didn't say anything.

"Harriet?"

Silence.

"Alright," Fitzsimmons said. "Dr. James, Mr. Dursley, perhaps it's best if we talked about this somewhere else."

They stood up, and trouped out of the room. The moment Harry heard the door to the living room close, she bolted out of the chair, up the stairs, to her room. She grabbed Cecilia's diary, and forced her magic up, and into the diary. She needed it hidden in plain sight - she needed no one to think of it as anything other than just a diary. She needed that, with everything that she was, and everything that she might be.

She needed that, because she was afraid - afraid that she might lose Cecilia forever, afraid that she might never be able to go back to Hogwarts, afraid that damnably calm man would come back and pronounce her mentally insane.

She summoned the hot, sick, rising in her chest, and fed it into the diary. She opened it, and penned a few quick words:

Vernon's trying to have me committed to an asylum. I've tried to conceal the diary, but they may take it from me.

Don't worry. I am not without my defenses.

Harry shut the diary, and tucked it into the pocket of her shorts. It fit far more easily than it should have. She grabbed a piece of loose paper, and scrawled a short note on it, to Ron.

Dursleys trying to have me committed. If you don't hear from me soon, send help. -H

She then went to Hedwig's cage, and opened it up, reaching in. Hedwig hopped on her arm.

"I'm gonna need you to hang out at Ron's for a day or two, wait for things to blow over," Harry said. Hedwig gave her an inquiring look, and then an affectionate nip.

Harry snorted, and then brought her to the window, tossing her out.

"Go on, girl," she said.

Finally, she turned to her trunk, packing everything still out away, including her wand. Most trunks had a function where they could be only unlocked with a wand - a simply safety precaution against Muggles breaking into Hogwarts trunks when they weren't supposed to. Harry's had an optional password, which she'd bought two summers ago and never used.

Now, it was coming in handy. She could set a password, that would open the trunk when the command was uttered.

She tapped it with the wand. "Password: Open." The last word was hissed, in parseltongue. She opened it again, and then placed her wand gingerly inside of it, and re-sealed it. Finally, she shoved the trunk under the bed, and forced her magic into the trunk, to conceal it from any nosy Dursleys.

Preparations complete, she stepped back down the stairs, feeling oddly light and loose. The visitors and Vernon had returned to the living room.

Harry looked around, at all of them. "So? Am I crazy?"

Dr. James shifted uncomfortably, but Fitzsimmons was the one to speak. "We have conferred, and we've agreed that it would be helpful to detain you for an assessment period, under Section 2 of the Mental Health Act of 1983.

"This is only an assessment period of no more than 28 days. After that time, if we will re-evaluate if detainment is the best option," he explained.

"Whatever," Harry said. "Are you going to haul me away, now?"

"Harriet, unless you actively resist us, no one will be dragging you anywhere."

Harry didn't say anything, just offered her arms as if he was handcuffing her. Vernon stood up, and clapped a gentle hand on her shoulder. She flinched.

"It'll be alright. I'll drive you."

Harry glared at him.