The clatter of the pan hitting the floor echoed through the small, immaculately clean kitchen of Privet Drive, shattering the silence like a gunshot. Harry froze, every muscle in his body locking in place as if he'd been Petrified. For a single, fleeting moment, he considered making a run for it. But where would he go? The front door was out of the question, and the only window in the kitchen was too small, even for him.
Then came the inevitable.
"What—what was that?!" Aunt Petunia's shrill voice cut through the air, slicing like a knife.
Harry barely had time to flinch before she came storming into the kitchen, her eyes flashing with fury as they locked onto him. Her lips, already thin, all but disappeared into a tight, colorless line as she took in the scene—Harry, standing motionless, and the now-dented pan on the floor, its handle snapped clean off.
"You clumsy, useless boy!" she shrieked, her hands clenching into fists. "Do you have any idea how much that cost?!"
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, another, even louder voice thundered through the house.
"BOY!"
The very walls seemed to shake as Uncle Vernon came stomping in, his mustache bristling with rage. His face, already red from the effort of getting out of his chair, darkened to an alarming shade of puce as he took in the scene.
"WHAT," he bellowed, jabbing a sausage-thick finger in Harry's direction, "HAVE YOU DONE NOW?!"
Harry's mouth went dry. He barely had time to blink before Vernon was looming over him, his breath hot and reeking of the steak-and-kidney pie he'd just eaten.
"Broke a pan, did you?" Vernon growled, his voice dangerously low. "Well, well, isn't that just like you? Wasting my hard-earned money on your freakish incompetence."
"It was an accident," Harry mumbled, gripping the hem of his oversized shirt.
"Accident?" Vernon roared. "ACCIDENT?! Oh, I see! Just like it was an 'accident' when you 'forgot' to weed the garden last week? Or an 'accident' when you 'somehow' let Marge's prize bulldog out of the house? Or an 'accident' when you—"
"That was Dudley," Harry interjected before he could stop himself.
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
Silence.
For a split second, Uncle Vernon just stood there, his face frozen in an expression of sheer disbelief. Then, his mustache twitched.
"Oh-ho!" Vernon chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Oh-ho-ho, so that's how it is, is it? The little freak thinks he's got jokes now, does he?"
"I—"
"DON'T INTERRUPT ME, BOY!" Vernon bellowed, making Harry jump back.
"Oh, enough of this," Aunt Petunia snapped, marching forward and seizing Harry's arm with a grip like iron. "He'll clean this mess up and then go straight to his cupboard, where he belongs!"
Vernon huffed, adjusting his belt with exaggerated self-importance. "That's right. And no dinner for you, boy! You think food grows on trees? You think I break my back at Grunnings just so you can throw MY MONEY down the drain?!"
Harry resisted the urge to point out that Vernon didn't actually break his back doing anything. He mostly sat in his office yelling at people about drills.
Instead, he muttered, "No, Uncle Vernon."
"Exactly!" Vernon barked, pleased with himself. "You hear that, Petunia? The boy knows he's useless! A rare moment of honesty from him, eh?"
Aunt Petunia sniffed disdainfully. "Hurry up and clean this mess, boy! And properly this time—no funny business! I don't want to find so much as a smudge on my kitchen floor, do you hear me?"
Harry bent down and started picking up the broken pieces, his fingers trembling slightly.
Vernon gave a great snort. "Hah! Look at him. Shaking like a leaf. Honestly, Petunia, the way he acts, you'd think he had something to be afraid of!"
Harry bit his tongue. Hard.
After what felt like forever, he finally managed to sweep up the remains of the pan and wipe the floor clean. His stomach growled, a sharp reminder that he hadn't eaten since breakfast—if a single slice of toast could even be called breakfast.
But before he could even think about sneaking some food, Petunia grabbed his arm again.
"Cupboard. Now."
Harry stiffened.
"Aunt Petunia—"
Her fingers dug into his arm like claws. "Now, boy."
With no other choice, Harry allowed himself to be dragged to the hallway.
Vernon followed, a smug look of satisfaction on his face. "That's right, off you go! Maybe a night in there will teach you some respect!"
Aunt Petunia yanked open the cupboard door and practically shoved Harry inside. The musty scent of dust and old shoes filled his nose as he curled up against the back wall.
"And don't expect any food tomorrow either," she added coldly.
With a final, sharp glare, she slammed the door shut.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Harry exhaled shakily, curling up tighter. The hunger gnawed at his stomach, but he was used to it.
Just wait it out, he told himself. One day, I'll be out of here. One day, I won't need them anymore.
Until then, all he could do was endure.
—
As Harry lay curled up in the darkness of the cupboard under the stairs, his breath shallow and his stomach twisting with hunger, he did the only thing he could think of—he prayed. He didn't know who he was praying to, exactly. Maybe God? Maybe fate? Maybe just the universe in general?
All he knew was that he wanted out.
And then, the air crackled. A faint shimmer danced in the gloom, golden sparks flickering like tiny fireflies. A pop echoed through the tiny space, and suddenly, standing before him, was the strangest creature Harry had ever seen.
He had large, luminous eyes that glowed like a pair of moons, bat-like ears that twitched with every shift in the air, and a very particular look of exasperation—as if he had just walked into a room and immediately forgotten why.
Harry scrambled back against the wall, heart hammering. "Wh-who are you?" he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.
The creature straightened, adjusting the tattered-looking but oddly regal tunic he wore, before bowing deeply. "I am Kreth, Head-Elf of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Potter." He paused, eyeing Harry critically. "And you, young master, are in a bit of a state. Honestly, this is unacceptable."
Harry blinked. "Uh… what?"
Kreth sighed dramatically, rubbing his temples. "It's alright, I'm here now. We shall address the various and frankly shocking problems you seem to be dealing with one at a time. But first, I assume you would like to leave this—" he gestured vaguely around the tiny cupboard "—charming little cell?"
Harry narrowed his eyes. "How do I know you're not some kind of hallucination? I mean, I wouldn't blame my brain for snapping after years of this."
Kreth snorted. "Hallucination? Please. Do hallucinations have a flair for the dramatic entrance? Do they provide excellent household management skills? Do they have a centuries-old legacy of serving wizarding nobility?" He folded his arms. "No, Master Harry. They do not."
Harry stared. "…Right. That makes total sense."
Kreth gave him a long, scrutinizing look. "You are taking this suspiciously well. Are you always this calm when strange things happen?"
Harry shrugged. "Weird stuff happens around me all the time. I once made my teacher's wig turn blue. And another time, I made Dudley's shirt shrink so tight he looked like an overstuffed sausage."
Kreth snorted. "Ah, accidental magic. Strong in you, it is."
Harry blinked. "Did you just do a Yoda impression?"
"Who?" Kreth asked blankly, before waving his hand. "Never mind. We are getting distracted. Your grandparents sent me. They will, I regret to inform you, be rather put out about this whole 'Cupboard Under the Stairs' nonsense."
Harry stiffened. "My grandparents? I don't have grandparents. The Dursleys said—"
"Oh, right, because they're clearly the most reliable source of information," Kreth muttered, rolling his eyes. "Yes, the same people who tell you that you are 'lucky' to live in a glorified broom closet and act like feeding you is some sort of grand act of charity. Forgive me if I take their version of events with a cauldron of salt."
Harry hesitated. "But… they said my parents were—"
"—unemployed drunks?" Kreth finished, raising a brow. "Yes, I know. I may have to have a word with the Dursleys about that already." He cracked his knuckles, looking far too pleased with himself. "I believe Uncle Vernon may require a new pair of trousers after that."
Harry let out a startled laugh before catching himself. "Wait, wait, back up. My grandparents are alive?"
Kreth softened slightly. "Charlus and Dorea Potter. They have been… well, let's call it 'indisposed' for some time, but recent events have allowed them to awaken. And when they realized their grandson was living in the Muggle equivalent of Azkaban, they were not pleased."
Harry felt like he had been punched in the chest. Family. Real family.
"They sent you to get me?"
"Indeed. Took longer than I'd like, given the… complications. House Elf magic is tricky with certain wards, you see." Kreth frowned. "But I made it. And we are leaving. Immediately. Before I lose what little faith I have in the maturity and intelligence of the so-called 'adult guardians' in your life."
Harry hesitated. "How do I know you're not lying?"
Kreth groaned. "Because I could have kidnapped you ages ago if that were the plan, and frankly, I don't have the patience for deception. Too much effort. Come now, Master Harry, let's be reasonable. Worst case scenario, I'm some nefarious kidnapper who takes you away from this delightful environment where you are so clearly treasured and cared for. Oh, the horror." He rolled his eyes. "Best case scenario? You get to meet your actual family and live in a house that doesn't qualify as an extreme sport."
Harry bit his lip. Then, very slowly, he reached out.
"Fine," he said. "But if this is a trick, I'm going to be really annoyed."
Kreth grinned. "That's the spirit. Now hold tight, Master Harry. This is going to feel very strange."
And with that, Kreth snapped his fingers. The world tilted. And then, everything changed.
Harry stumbled slightly, the oppressive weight of the cupboard vanishing, replaced by warmth, the scent of polished wood and old books, and the undeniable hum of magic.
—
Harry gawked at the sprawling estate before him, his jaw nearly unhinging as he took in the sheer grandeur of Blackmoor Manor. Towering stone columns framed an elaborate entrance, ivy clinging stubbornly to the weathered facade. It was old—ancient, even—but exuded an undeniable sense of power and history. Compared to the sterile monotony of Privet Drive, it might as well have been a different planet.
"Welcome to Blackmoor, Master Harry," Kreth announced, puffing out his chest with unmistakable pride. He adjusted his waistcoat—because, of course, he wore a waistcoat—before smoothing down his sleeves with meticulous care. "Magnificent, isn't it? Been standing for centuries. Unlike Number Four, this place has character."
Harry barely heard him, still grappling with the surreal reality that he had been whisked away from his cupboard to, well... this. "Is this where my grandparents live?" he asked, voice tinged with awe and uncertainty.
Kreth tilted his head, an amused glint in his sharp, knowing eyes. "Ah. A good question. No, Master Harry, not exactly. This is the ancestral home of the Black family—your grandmother Dorea Potter's family. Lord Arcturus Black—who, by the way, is far more tolerable than his portrait would have you believe—safeguarded your grandparents during their, ah... extended nap."
Harry frowned. "Wait. Nap? You mean they've been asleep? Like... enchanted or something?"
Kreth waggled a hand in the air. "Something like that. More of a 'deep magical stasis,' which, I suppose, is just a fancy way of saying 'very long nap.' But!" He raised a finger as if to ward off further interruptions, "your grandparents, Charlus and Dorea Potter, do indeed reside here now. They woke up a short while ago and have been eagerly waiting for you. Which, frankly, is putting it mildly. I haven't seen Lord Charlus pace that much since he tried to teach Master Sirius how to play wizard's chess."
Harry blinked. "They're here? Right now?" The thought sent a surge of warmth through him, a feeling so foreign he barely recognized it.
Kreth nodded, a pleased smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, Master Harry. And, I daresay, they might be the first people in your life who don't think the word 'freak' applies to you. A novel concept, I know."
Harry swallowed, the excitement bubbling in his chest almost overwhelming. After years of being unwanted, of being reminded daily that he was a burden, the idea of meeting family who actually cared about him was almost too much to believe.
"Can we... can we go see them?" he asked, barely able to contain the hopeful tremor in his voice.
Kreth gave an exaggerated sigh, as though Harry had just asked him to carry a Hippogriff up the stairs. "Oh, I suppose. If we must. Come along then, Master Harry. Let's not keep the lord and lady waiting."
Harry grinned despite himself and followed Kreth into the depths of Blackmoor Manor, where—for the first time in his life—he might just find where he truly belonged.
—
As Charlus and Dorea Potter awaited their grandson's arrival, a quiet tension filled the grand sitting room of Blackmoor Manor. Dorea, her statuesque form draped in elegant midnight-blue robes, held herself with the poise of an aristocrat, but the slight tremor in her fingers as she traced the rim of her teacup betrayed her inner turmoil. Charlus, ever the embodiment of quiet authority, stood near the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, his sharp gaze fixed on the doorway.
Kreth, who had reappeared in the room after escorting Harry inside, cleared his throat. "Er—right, before we get into the whole grand reunion bit, I should warn you both. He's… well, he's a bit skittish. Understandably so, considering the absolute bin fire that's been his life up until now."
Dorea inhaled sharply, setting her teacup down with precision. "We are prepared, Kreth."
Charlus exhaled through his nose, a barely contained storm brewing behind his steel-grey eyes. "Bring him in."
Kreth muttered something about 'dramatic entrances' and shuffled off, returning a moment later with a small, hesitant figure trailing behind him.
Harry Potter stood in the doorway, eyes darting between the two imposing figures before him. He looked so terribly small in his oversized, tattered clothes, his thin frame swallowed by a sweater at least three sizes too large. His messy black hair, so much like James', fell over his forehead, barely covering the faint lightning-shaped scar. His green eyes—Lily's eyes—held a guarded, weary look, as if he expected to be turned away at any moment.
Dorea, usually so composed, gasped softly, pressing a hand to her chest. Charlus, a man who had faced war and politics with unshakable resolve, felt his heart clench at the sight of his grandson looking like a half-starved orphan rather than the heir to the Potter legacy.
"Harry…" Dorea whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Harry swallowed. "Er… hello?"
Charlus took a step forward, his movements slow and measured, as if approaching a frightened deer. "Come closer, lad. Let us look at you."
Harry hesitated, his gaze flickering toward Kreth, who gave him a subtle nod of encouragement, before shuffling forward. As he stepped into the light, the faint bruises on his arms and the sharp angles of his face became all the more visible.
Dorea's lips thinned, her normally regal expression darkening into something dangerous. "Those wretched Muggles," she hissed under her breath, before kneeling down to Harry's level. "Who did this to you, child?"
Harry stiffened. "It's—It's fine. I'm fine."
Charlus let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. "Fine?" he repeated, his voice dangerously calm. "You call this fine?" He reached out, hesitating for the briefest of moments before placing a firm but gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "No, my boy. This is far from fine."
Dorea's gloved fingers brushed Harry's cheek with surprising tenderness. "You are safe now," she promised. "No one will ever hurt you again."
Harry swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of their presence. He had never been spoken to like this—like he mattered. Like someone actually cared.
Kreth, sensing the rising tide of emotion, cleared his throat again. "Right, well, this has all been very moving, hasn't it? Just a thought, but perhaps we sit down before someone swoons?" He eyed Dorea meaningfully. "Not pointing fingers, of course."
Dorea shot him a glare that would have sent lesser men running. Kreth, however, merely shrugged, looking rather pleased with himself.
Charlus exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard. "Yes. Sit. You must be exhausted, lad."
Harry nodded numbly and allowed himself to be guided to an opulent, high-backed chair, sinking into the plush cushions with a sigh. He still wasn't sure if this was real or some fever dream his mind had conjured up to cope. But if it was real—if these people truly meant to care for him—then for the first time in his life, he might actually have a home.
Charlus sat across from him, his piercing gaze never leaving Harry's. "You have much to learn, grandson. About your family. About who you are."
Harry hesitated, then nodded. "I'd like that."
Dorea's lips curved into the ghost of a smile. "Then we begin anew."
Kreth sniffed, nodding approvingly. "Excellent. Now, if no one objects, I'll fetch some tea. And biscuits. Proper ones. The boy looks like he's never had a decent biscuit in his life."
Harry blinked. "I—I haven't, actually."
Kreth froze mid-step, then turned back around, his expression one of pure horror. "You haven't—Right. Forget the tea, I'm making scones. With clotted cream. This is an emergency."
Charlus sighed, though there was a distinct glint of amusement in his eyes. "Merlin help us, he's going to start baking."
Dorea merely sipped her tea. "Let him. If he doesn't, I will."
And for the first time in his life, as Harry sat among his newfound family, listening to their easy banter, he thought—just maybe—he was home.
—
As Charlus and Dorea embraced their grandson, their hearts heavy with sorrow at the sight of his suffering, Arcturus and Melania watched the reunion unfold from a distance, their expressions grave and contemplative. The firelight cast long shadows across the grand study, flickering over the ancient tapestries and the dark mahogany furnishings that bore the weight of Blackmoor Manor's long history.
Arcturus, standing tall and regal, adjusted the heavy signet ring on his finger before turning his gaze to Charlus. "We must act quickly," he said, his voice like the low rumble of distant thunder. "Dumbledore will not take long to realize the boy is missing. He has wards, eyes everywhere, and undoubtedly a spy or two lurking where we least expect."
Charlus, ever the embodiment of restrained power, merely arched an eyebrow. "Let him learn, then. It will be the first lesson in a long overdue education."
Dorea, her cool beauty undiminished by time, traced her fingers lightly along Harry's unruly hair before meeting her husband's gaze. "We should not waste time gloating, darling. Albus Dumbledore is many things, but a fool is not one of them. He will attempt to retrieve Harry, and I refuse to let that happen."
Melania, draped elegantly in dark velvet, exhaled a quiet breath, her voice smooth as silk yet edged with steel. "Then we must make it clear that his interference is unwelcome."
Charlus moved to the ornate desk, his movements precise, every action deliberate. He retrieved a quill, dipped it in rich, black ink, and began to write with an elegance that bespoke centuries of refinement. The scratch of the quill against parchment was the only sound in the heavy silence.
Kreth, standing to the side, arms folded with an air of exasperated patience, cleared his throat. "If I may be so bold, Master Charlus, whatever it is you're about to write, perhaps something in plain Common English, instead of the usual 'I am a lord, hear me roar' nonsense, would be best? I do believe wizards sometimes suffer from an ailment I call 'excessively verbose letter syndrome.'"
Charlus didn't so much as glance up. "I was under the impression that you were a house-elf, Kreth, not a literary critic."
Kreth sniffed. "And yet here we are, sir. If Master Charlus intends to warn Dumbledore, might I suggest something succinct? Perhaps along the lines of 'Touch the boy and you'll regret it'?"
Dorea, lips twitching, murmured, "A bit crude, but effective."
Charlus sighed, folded the parchment neatly, and held it out to Kreth. "Take this. Place it where you found Harry. Ensure Dumbledore receives it."
Kreth took the letter with a bow, though not without muttering, "Of course, let's send the house-elf on another highly dangerous mission. Kreth lives to serve, Kreth lives to take unnecessary risks..."
Melania arched a brow. "If you die, Kreth, I shall be most inconvenienced."
"A house-elf does what he can, Mistress Melania," Kreth deadpanned before vanishing with a sharp pop.
Arcturus turned back to Charlus, watching the exchange with something that might have been amusement had he been anyone else. "Do you think Dumbledore will take the warning seriously?"
Charlus met his gaze with a quiet, deadly certainty. "Oh, he will understand, Arcturus. He will understand that House Potter will not tolerate interference."
Melania ran her fingers over the armrest of her chair, her expression thoughtful. "And if he does not?"
Dorea's hand, still resting on Harry's shoulder, tightened slightly. "Then he will be taught another lesson, one less pleasant than a letter."
As the fire crackled and the weight of their decision settled upon them, they all knew—this was only the beginning. The storm that had been brewing in the shadows for years was finally about to break, and House Potter, standing firm within the halls of Blackmoor Manor, was prepared to weather it at all costs.
—
Albus Dumbledore sat in his dimly lit office at Hogwarts, the soft ticking of various enchanted instruments filling the room. He was in the midst of perusing an old tome on protective enchantments when, with a sudden jolt, one of the delicate silver devices on his desk let out a shrill whine and stopped spinning altogether.
His bright blue eyes, sharp despite their usual twinkle, darkened as he observed the now-motionless trinket. The wards around Privet Drive had fallen.
Dumbledore's fingers tightened slightly around his wand. He had expected the protections to hold for many more years. There were only a handful of reasons why they would fail, and none of them were good.
Rising from his seat with a swiftness that belied his age, he swept towards the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, and tossed it into the flames. The fire roared green, casting long shadows across the room.
"Arabella Figg's residence," he said clearly, stepping into the fire without hesitation.
Moments later, he emerged in a small, cluttered living room, the scent of cabbage hanging thick in the air.
Arabella Figg, hunched in her favorite chair, looked up sharply, her wiry gray hair disheveled. She set down a saucer of milk meant for one of her ever-present cats and squinted at the intruder.
"Albus," she greeted, her voice gravelly yet composed. "You're early. I've only just made tea."
Dumbledore took a measured step forward, his expression grave. "The wards at Privet Drive have fallen."
Arabella's gnarled hands stilled over the cat in her lap. "Fallen?" she repeated, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Impossible. I've been keeping watch. No one's been near the house."
"I fear someone has been near enough," Dumbledore countered, his tone edged with urgency. "Harry is gone."
Arabella let out a long breath, her thin lips pressing together. "Well," she muttered after a beat, "that's a hell of a thing."
Dumbledore's expression softened slightly. "Arabella, did you notice anything unusual? Any signs that might suggest interference?"
She scratched the side of her head, her fingers weaving through tangled gray curls. "Nothing," she said after a moment. "Boy went to sleep as usual. No strange figures loitering. Even the cats were at ease, and you know they sense trouble before I do."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "Then whoever took him was highly skilled. Few could bypass those wards undetected."
Arabella snorted. "Or someone who actually cares about the boy decided enough was enough."
Dumbledore's lips tightened. "It is paramount we recover him quickly."
Arabella's gaze sharpened. "Are you sure about that?"
Dumbledore blinked, momentarily thrown by her bluntness. "Harry must be protected."
"And yet," she said, folding her arms, "he wasn't protected from them."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Dumbledore's face, but he did not answer immediately. Arabella studied him for a moment before shaking her head.
"Fine," she said at last, shifting forward in her chair. "What's the plan?"
Dumbledore straightened. "I must confirm whether he was taken by friend or foe. If it was an enemy—"
Arabella hummed. "Bit late to be worrying about enemies, don't you think?"
Dumbledore exhaled, the lines on his face deepening. "If it was an ally," he continued, ignoring her jab, "I must ascertain their intentions."
Arabella tapped her fingers against the chair's arm. "Suppose you do find out where he is. What then?"
Dumbledore regarded her with something akin to sadness. "Then I shall see if he can be persuaded to return."
Arabella let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. "You old fool," she murmured. "You really don't get it, do you?"
Dumbledore studied her, but before he could respond, Arabella leaned forward, fixing him with a piercing stare. "Wherever Harry's gone, I'd wager he's safer there than he ever was at Privet Drive."
The words hung between them, heavy and undeniable. For the first time in a very long while, Albus Dumbledore found himself without a reply.
—
The brass knocker clanged once, twice, echoing through the pristine, overly sanitized halls of Number Four, Privet Drive. Albus Dumbledore stood at the doorstep, his half-moon spectacles catching the dim glow of the streetlamp as he patiently awaited an answer.
Inside, Petunia Dursley nearly leapt out of her skin at the sound, her hands tightening around the dish towel she'd been clutching. She knew—somehow, deep in her bones, she knew—that this was not a welcome visit.
Vernon, sprawled in his armchair, barely glanced up from his evening paper. "Well? Are you going to get that, Pet? If it's one of those bloody neighborhood committees—"
The doorbell rang again. Louder. More insistent.
Petunia hesitated only a moment before smoothing out her blouse and pulling open the door, only to find herself face to face with the towering figure of Albus Dumbledore.
Her lips thinned. "Professor."
"Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore greeted, ever genial, though his eyes, sharp as they were kind, assessed her with great interest. "I do hope this isn't an inconvenience. I simply wished to check on young Harry."
Petunia's breath caught, but she masked it quickly. "It's rather late for a visit, isn't it?"
"Oh, never too late for matters of great importance," Dumbledore replied smoothly, his gaze drifting past her shoulder and into the hallway. "May I come in?"
Petunia hesitated—she really did—but to deny him entry felt impossible, as if an invisible force was compelling her to step aside. And so she did, leading him into the sitting room where Vernon sat, still buried behind his newspaper, his thick mustache twitching with irritation.
"Who was at the door, Pet?" Vernon rumbled, not looking up.
"Professor Dumbledore," Petunia said stiffly.
The newspaper lowered slowly, revealing a flushed, glowering face. "You," Vernon muttered, his lip curling as though he'd caught the scent of something foul. "What do you want?"
"Good evening, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore said pleasantly, taking a seat in the armchair opposite him as though he were a welcome guest. "I've come to see Harry."
Vernon's eyes darted to Petunia, a silent conversation passing between them before he scoffed. "Haven't got him."
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly. "I beg your pardon?"
Petunia's hands twisted together. "He's… he's not here."
The room seemed to still. Dumbledore's genial expression did not falter, but the air around him changed subtly, a quiet intensity settling over him. "Not here?"
"That's what she said, isn't it?" Vernon barked, gripping the arms of his chair. "Boy up and vanished! Left on his own, I'd wager—good riddance, if you ask me."
Dumbledore's fingers steepled in front of him as he studied them both. "Forgive me, but I find it highly unlikely that a child of barely five years simply walked out of your home unnoticed."
Petunia swallowed hard. "We don't know how it happened. One minute he was there, the next… gone."
Dumbledore's gaze flicked toward the hallway. "Might I see his room?"
Petunia and Vernon exchanged another look before Petunia nodded stiffly and turned on her heel, leading him toward the small cupboard under the stairs. She hesitated before opening it, as if hoping the cupboard would somehow prove her wrong.
It did not.
Dumbledore stood in silence, staring at the cramped, miserable excuse for a bedroom. A threadbare blanket lay folded at the foot of a small, lumpy cot, and the faint smell of damp lingered in the air. The single, flickering lightbulb above cast long shadows over the tiny space, emphasizing the cruel absurdity of it all.
Something in Dumbledore's expression shifted. He raised his hand, running long fingers lightly over the low ceiling, the scuffed walls, the tiny mattress—then he saw it. A piece of parchment, neatly folded, placed deliberately in the very center of the cot.
With great care, he picked it up and unfolded it. His eyes skimmed over the words, his breath hitching ever so slightly as he recognized the handwriting.
Charlus Potter.
For the first time that evening, Albus Dumbledore's mask slipped, if only for the briefest of moments.
"What is it?" Petunia asked, straining to read over his shoulder.
Dumbledore did not respond immediately. Instead, he read the note again, his lips pressing into a thin line.
'Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon.'
It was the Hogwarts motto. A warning. A declaration.
Charlus Potter was awake. And he had taken his grandson.
Dumbledore folded the parchment carefully, slipping it into the depths of his robes before turning back to Petunia and Vernon, his expression unreadable. "Thank you for your time, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley."
Vernon scoffed. "That's it, then? No questions, no accusations? Just off you go?"
"Indeed," Dumbledore said mildly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "I believe I have all the answers I need."
He turned to leave but paused, glancing at Petunia one last time. "You may not realize it, but you have just been granted a great mercy, Mrs. Dursley."
She stiffened. "Mercy?"
Dumbledore's gaze was piercing now, all pretense of warmth stripped away. "Had Charlus Potter found his grandson still here, I very much doubt our conversation would have been this civil."
Petunia paled, her throat bobbing as she swallowed convulsively.
"Do have a pleasant evening," Dumbledore said, stepping past them and out the door.
The moment the door shut behind him, the silence in the house was deafening.
Petunia sank onto the nearest chair, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Vernon, what do we do now?"
Vernon, still scowling, picked up his paper and snapped it open with forced indifference. "We forget about the boy, Pet. It's over."
But as Dumbledore strode down Privet Drive, his robes billowing in the night breeze, he knew it was far from over. Charlus Potter had made his move.
And Albus Dumbledore had just lost his most valuable piece in the game.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!