"Nothing like that, I mean, that was—" Harry realized he was babbling and took a deep breath. Always look like you know what you're doing. He also realized he was still standing, and moved to sit down. "I can move things by wanting them to move. If I throw something, I can make it hit where I want it to go. I can repair things"—Harry sat in his desk chair, which gave a nasty squeal, and he grimaced—"at least to some degree. I can fight back when people try to hurt me." An image swam to his mind—Vernon raising his hand, Harry closing his eyes, Vernon's pained cry, Harry looking up, the mix of horror and triumph as he saw the knife in Vernon's palm—then another—gasping for breath, Vernon's silhouette standing over him, half the cricket bat disintegrated—and Harry shook his head to clear it. "I even talked with a snake at the zoo a few months ago."