“Raise your hand.
Point one finger at your target—any finger works.
And remember, wizards don’t go pointing at other wizards.” Mrs.
Potter steadied Harry’s hand and aimed it at the gray-haired old man.
“Muggles’ resistance to magic grows stronger with age.
It peaks in middle age, then starts dropping.
Old people have almost none left.” Mrs.
Potter kept talking, but Harry wasn’t listening.
He looked at the old man, then quickly glanced away.
He couldn’t stand the emotion hiding in those cloudy eyes.
“Next, feel the magic.
It’s easy.
Think about the moment your emotions were strongest.
Magic moves with your feelings.
That’s why old wizards believed strong emotions made spells more powerful.
They were half right—emotions don’t change the spell.
They change the magic itself.
Activated magic hits harder.” Harry closed his eyes.
Partly to escape the old man’s stare.
Partly to reach for the magic his mother described.
Scenes flashed through his head.
Aunt Marge—that fat, mean woman—screaming insults at his parents.
The shock of finding a letter with his name on it.
Opening his eyes and seeing his real mom and dad standing right there.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Blood rushed hot through his veins.
But underneath it all, Harry felt something cool and deep inside him.
Like a hidden lake in his chest, stirred into slow ripples by every surge of feeling.
This was magic.
He’d actually felt it.
Harry opened his eyes and met the old man’s gaze.
Something flickered in those tired eyes—an emotion Harry couldn’t name.
It stung like a bee.
The calm lake inside him exploded into boiling fury.
For one terrifying second, every drop of blood in his body seemed to rush straight to his head.
His skull felt too small, like it might crack open.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
His magic—the lake—was boiling over.
Some raw, half-formed thought had set it off like a lit match in a pool of gasoline.
The magic tore through him, dragging his blood along in a violent current.
His head pounded.
His heart hammered so hard he thought it would rip through his chest.
Then the magic found a way out.
It poured from his body and touched the world.
Wind howled around him.
His sweat turned to glittering ice crystals.
The garden soil erupted with sudden, violent blooms.
Magic revealed how limitless it could be.
Harry, trapped in the center of it all, felt like he was drowning in the eye of a storm.
Everything blurred.
“Harry… Harry…” His mother’s voice broke through the chaos, thin and urgent.
“Focus… control it… breathe…” The words came in pieces, but Harry understood.
He dragged in a shaky breath and forced it out.
Again.
And again.
The screaming wind died.
The garden slowly sharpened back into focus.
Harry stood there panting, chest heaving.
The beautiful garden was destroyed.
Lyte’s tea tray and cookies lay scattered across the grass.
Strange little magical creatures had already swarmed in to feast on the mess.
Harry stared at the wreckage he’d caused and felt sick—until Mrs.
Potter pulled him into a warm, tight hug.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I wrecked everything.” “Shh.
It doesn’t matter, sweetheart.” Her voice stayed soft, no anger in it at all.
“The servants will clean it up.
What matters is you.
Your talent is extraordinary.” “My talent’s… good?” Harry asked, voice small.
The Dursleys had spent years telling him he was worthless.
He’d only survived their lies because he’d seen how stupid Dudley really was.
Still, no one had ever called him talented before.
Not even in his wildest dreams.
“Of course it is, baby.
Your father would be so proud if he saw this.” Harry swallowed.
“What just happened?
I found the magic, but then it… it went crazy.” “That was a magic rampage.
Every young wizard hits one eventually.
Most need something huge to trigger it.
You did it with barely a flicker of emotion.
It proves how powerful your gift is.” Mrs.
Potter smoothed his messy hair.
“It also means you have to learn control.
Fast.” Harry managed a shaky smile.
Then his eyes landed on the old man lying motionless on the grass a few yards away, and the smile died.
The other two Muggles were still breathing.
The one covered in rotting sores.
The one missing an arm.
Both alive.
Only the gray-haired man—the one who had looked the healthiest—lay completely still.
“Mom… he’s…” Mrs.
Potter followed his gaze and frowned.
“Lyte.
Handle it.” She paused, then added more gently, “Does he have family?” “Two sons, Mistress.
One is married with children.
The other just turned eighteen.” “Find the younger one a wife.
Give each son five Galleons.” Mrs.
Potter pointed at the remaining Muggles.
“Heal the injured one and put him to work.
Give the other twenty Galleons.” “The mistress is most generous,” Lyte said with real reverence.
He guided the two shaken Muggles away, then summoned servants and gardeners to repair the garden.
Mrs.
Potter took Harry’s hand and led him toward the house.
Harry looked back once.
The old man’s body was being carried off like it weighed nothing.
Sadness flooded Harry’s chest, but he remembered the promise he’d made to his father.
He buried the feeling deep and kept walking.
Only the guilt stayed in his eyes.