Harry Potter: The Making of a Dark Lord

August 24th, 1995 – Hogwarts, Room of Requirement

"EXPULSO!"

Harry Potter stared at the rectangle of granite that the room had provided as a target. There was barely a scratch on it.

What the hell is wrong with me? he thought miserably.

He had just used an advanced blasting curse on the thing, and it had failed to budge. It should have been blown to smithereens.

Harry was breathing heavily despite his excellent conditioning, and sweat was pouring down his face. It felt to him like he was approaching magical exhaustion.

For the past hour he had been using the room to practice some of the advanced curses he had studied over the summer. He had been repeating this ritual every day for the past week, and every day he grew more and more frustrated at his inability to master these new spells. He had felt stronger than this while training for the Tri-Wizard tasks, for Merlin's sake.

A week ago Harry had been bored beyond belief, sitting alone in the Gryffindor common room listlessly flipping through yet another book. He had been splitting most of his time between the library and the common room, and was starting to get cabin fever again. He wasn't allowed to leave the castle, so flying wasn't an option. He desperately wanted a place to practice the new spells in his repertoire, but he didn't think the Headmaster would take kindly to him blasting apart desks in one of the classrooms. He had voiced his frustrations to Dobby, and, as Harry should have expected by now, Dobby had a solution.

The Come-and-Go Room. An absolutely brilliant feat of magic. Harry had shaken his head in wonder at the place. If only he had known about it as a first year…

And so Harry had taken to using the room with a fervor born of desperation. But he quickly discovered how useless his new knowledge of advanced offensive spells seemed to be. And it wasn't just the new spells that were giving him difficulty. Since the disaster with his patronus charm in Surrey, Harry had practiced it every day. He now heard Dudley's panicked screams in his nightmares, and wondered if he would ever stop feeling guilty at his failure. Those unholy things, Harry had vowed, are never going to get near me again.

He couldn't imagine how Vernon and Petunia had taken the news of Dudley's "condition," and wondered if Vernon was trying to hire a hit man in the muggle world. At least this meant he would never have to return to Privet Drive. Not that he could, anyway; Professor Dumbledore had told him a few days after the incident that Harry wouldn't be welcome at the funeral and that the Dursleys were moving out of the country.

He had finally, after several frustrating days, gotten the ghostly stag to form, but it looked nothing like the corporeal marvel he had produced during third year. This stag was faint and wispy looking, and only lasted for a few seconds. Surely I can't be that far out of practice, Harry had thought. Is there something wrong with my magic?

After several days of increasing annoyance, Harry had finally broken down and approached his magical guardian with his problem. He hadn't spoken to Dumbledore for three days after their confrontation in his office. It simply beggared belief that this old man had been his guardian all along, and yet hadn't lifted a finger to protect him from the Dursleys. Why hadn't he told Harry about their "relationship?"

Initially Harry had resolved never to speak with the man again, but after careful consideration of his situation, he realized this was impossible. He was isolated from the rest of the wizarding world, he had a Dark Lord after him, and he had no friends who weren't connected to Dumbledore somehow. Plus the old man was in control of Harry's finances; Harry had no access to money without his vault key.

In short, he was trapped; he had no choice but to grit his teeth and swallow his resentment of the incompetent fool until he turned 17. Then all bets were off.

So Harry had taken a deep, calming breath and walked to the Headmaster's office. Once there, he had stayed carefully on topic, pretending that their earlier conversation had not happened. Dumbledore, too, had seemed eager to let sleeping dogs lie.

Harry had told him of his new difficulties with magic—carefully avoiding mention of the advanced spells he had been practicing—and solicited his advice. Dumbledore had nodded sagely in all the right parts, but had seemed unconcerned with Harry's seeming lack of power. "I believe this shall pass, Harry," he had counseled. "It is likely a consequence of having locked wands with Voldemort during your duel. He may be experiencing something similar, which would explain why there have been no attacks this summer."

Harry had frowned at this explanation, but didn't know what else to ask. The Headmaster had moved on by then anyway, delighted at having Harry's apparent trust again. He had informed Harry about the Order of the Phoenix's purpose, explained why they were unable to go public with Voldemort's return, and promised to keep him notified about all things that might be related to him. Harry had just nodded throughout and eventually left the office, unsatisfied. Something just didn't feel right about the Headmaster's explanations.

So today Harry had continued his attempt to overcome his newfound weaknesses, and had failed yet again. He took one last look around the training area that this fantastic room had created, and then turned to go back to his dorm room. I have got to figure out what's wrong with me, he thought. Voldemort could take me down with a tickling charm right now.

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