The Chains of Power

The days at Privet Drive stretched long and quiet, the oppressive summer heat hanging in the air. For Harry, the silence had become a companion, one that amplified the whispers inside his mind—those dark whispers that came from deep within him, from the Sharingan. They told him of power, of control, of the destiny that lay ahead.

But they also reminded him of one thing he could never forget: **his parents' deaths**.

Every day, every night, the images haunted him. His mother's screams, his father's last stand, and that mocking laugh of Voldemort. Those memories, once distant and hazy, had become sharper since the battle with Quirrell—**crystal clear** under the influence of his eyes.

The Sharingan was a curse and a gift, one that forced him to relive those moments, again and again, with perfect clarity. But as painful as it was, Harry could feel the power that came with that pain. It was like stoking a fire that had always been there, smoldering beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.

And now, he had the means to do just that.

---

### **Scene: The Growing Rift**

It was well past midnight when Harry found himself once again sitting on the floor of his cramped bedroom, textbooks scattered around him, their pages illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through the small window. He had read each of these books a dozen times, absorbing their contents, but tonight, they offered no new insights.

His mind was elsewhere—drifting, as it often did these days, to thoughts of **revenge**. Revenge against Voldemort, against the people who had taken his parents, and now... against the very world that had made him an orphan. The world that expected him to be a savior when all he wanted was **justice**.

The Sharingan made these thoughts louder, more pronounced, urging him to act. He couldn't ignore the pull. His magic was already stronger, sharper, and with each passing day, he grew more capable of controlling it in ways he had never imagined.

But it wasn't enough.

Harry's hands clenched into fists as he stood abruptly, the power thrumming through his veins. The Sharingan flared to life in his eyes, and with a flick of his wand, the books around him lifted into the air, hovering as if caught in an invisible wind.

He could feel the magic flowing through him, the precision with which he could control it, all thanks to the Sharingan. But this... this was still small. Petty. What he wanted—what he needed—was something more.

His thoughts turned, unbidden, to the memories of that night at Hogwarts. **Voldemort** had mocked him, mocked his mother's sacrifice. But there was another layer of anger, another thread of betrayal that twisted deep in Harry's heart.

**Where was the justice for his parents?**

He had heard enough whispered conversations between teachers at Hogwarts to piece together the truth. The magical world had done nothing—**nothing**—to avenge them. They were content to move on, to let Voldemort rise again and again. They expected him, Harry, a child, to clean up the mess.

A low growl escaped his throat, and the books around him shook, teetering dangerously as his magic flared in response to his anger.

---

### **Scene: Confronting the Dursleys**

Downstairs, the Dursleys slept, unaware of the growing storm in the small room at the top of the stairs. They had learned to keep their distance from Harry these past few weeks. Even Uncle Vernon, who had always taken pleasure in tormenting Harry, had grown wary of the boy.

But Harry could sense it—the fear that simmered beneath their cold stares, the way they flinched whenever he walked past. It was almost amusing.

And it was time to test just how deep that fear ran.

Harry descended the stairs silently, the shadows of the darkened hallway swallowing him as he moved. His wand rested loosely in his hand, though he barely needed it now. The Sharingan was more than enough to handle the Dursleys.

When he entered the living room, he found them as he had expected—sleeping soundly. Uncle Vernon, sprawled out in his oversized armchair, his mustache twitching with each heavy snore. Aunt Petunia, perched delicately on the edge of the couch, her hands folded neatly in her lap even in sleep. And Dudley, drooling onto the cushion beneath him, his large frame curled awkwardly on the sofa.

Harry stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them with a mixture of detachment and... something else. **Disgust? Pity? It didn't matter.**

He raised his wand and muttered a quiet incantation, his voice barely a whisper. The spell slipped through the air, unnoticed by the Dursleys, but Harry felt it take hold.

The room grew colder, the air thickening as Harry's magic enveloped the space. His eyes—blazing red with the Sharingan—tracked every detail, every shift in the atmosphere as his spell took root.

Aunt Petunia stirred first, her thin lips parting as a soft whimper escaped her. She shifted in her sleep, her fingers twitching as if trying to fight off the invisible force that now wrapped around her mind.

Harry smiled, cold and calculating, as he stepped forward. He could feel the genjutsu take hold, binding them in their sleep, trapping them in the illusions he had woven. The Dursleys had always been weak—too weak to fight back against the power that now coursed through him.

He moved closer to Uncle Vernon, his wand raised slightly. The man's snoring had stopped, his breathing shallow and uneven as the genjutsu played on his fears.

Harry leaned in, his voice a low murmur, barely audible above the soft rustling of the curtains. "You always wanted to control me, didn't you?"

Uncle Vernon's face twitched, but he remained asleep, trapped in the nightmare that Harry had conjured for him.

"You wanted to keep me weak," Harry continued, his words cold and precise. "But I'm not weak anymore."

With a flick of his wand, the genjutsu shifted, twisting Vernon's dreams into something darker, more terrifying. Harry could see it in his uncle's expression—the growing fear, the sweat beading on his brow, the way his body tensed as the nightmare intensified.

"Do you feel it?" Harry whispered, his voice barely a breath. "Do you feel how powerless you are now?"

Uncle Vernon jerked in his sleep, a choked whimper escaping him. But he didn't wake. He couldn't. The Sharingan wouldn't allow it.

Harry stepped back, his wand lowering as he released the spell. The room warmed slightly, the oppressive atmosphere lifting, but the Dursleys remained oblivious to what had just happened.

Harry watched them for a moment longer, his eyes still glowing with the faint red light of the Sharingan. The whispers in the back of his mind urged him to push further, to punish them, to take what was his by right. But not yet. No... not yet.

There were bigger things to worry about.

---

### **Scene: A Search for Answers**

Back in his room, Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at his hands. The genjutsu had been easy—too easy. He had barely needed to try. But as satisfying as it had been to test his power on the Dursleys, it wasn't enough.

He needed **answers**.

The Sharingan had given him glimpses of its potential, but he knew there was more—so much more. What he had done to the Dursleys was only the beginning. He had seen the way Snape had looked at him that night in the library, the way Dumbledore had hesitated when he saw Harry's eyes. They knew something. They knew what this power was capable of.

But he wasn't in Hogwarts now, and access to more knowledge was limited. His fingers itched to be back in the library's **Restricted Section**, pouring through the darkest texts, seeking the truth about his newfound abilities.

The frustration boiled within him, his anger bubbling to the surface. Being stuck at Privet Drive, away from magic, away from the knowledge that could help him harness his power fully, was unbearable.

But he wasn't completely helpless. His eyes—they saw more now, even here. He could sense things, small traces of magic that lingered in the world, like faint echoes. Even though he was miles away from the magical world, Harry could still feel his connection to it growing stronger.

What he needed now was **focus**. The Dursleys were a distraction, nothing more. What he had done to them tonight was proof of how far he had come, but it was also a warning to himself. If he allowed himself to waste time on petty revenge, on small displays of power, he would never reach his true potential.

There was a greater enemy out there. **Voldemort**. The one who had killed his parents. And there were **others**, those who had allowed it to happen, who had done nothing to stop it. They would all pay in time.

Harry stood and moved to the small window, staring out at the quiet, empty street below. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pavement. Somewhere, far beyond this quiet, mundane neighborhood, the real world was waiting for him. A world full of magic, power, and enemies who had no idea what he was becoming.

He would show them all.