Irene Shaw was new to Privet Drive, having only recently moved into the quiet suburban neighbourhood. The decision to leave her old life behind in Colchester wasn't an easy one, but after losing her husband to a swift and painful battle with pancreatic cancer, Irene couldn't bear the leafy climes of their once cherished town any longer. Every corner of their now silent marital home had echoed with memories, pressing down upon her like a weight she couldn't lift. The emptiness, the absence of her husband's warm presence, had driven her to seek solace elsewhere, hoping that a change of scenery might soothe the aching void in her heart.

Yet, Privet Drive wasn't the refuge she had imagined. The street was quiet, almost too quiet, with its perfectly manicured lawns and identical houses lined up like soldiers in formation. There was a sterility to it that made her feel out of place, as if she were an intruder in a world where everyone else had their lives perfectly in order.

She'd quickly learned that this was merely an illusion. To know the truth, one only had to look at the Polkiss' eldest son, who spent every moment skiving from the local college with the Dursley's son to smoke cannabis in the park. Like all her neighbours, except Arabella Figg who'd seemingly found solace in a menagerie of cats, the highlight of her day had quickly become angling an armchair towards the window, turning the telly on, and watching the comings and goings of lethargic Privet Drive.

"Gran! Gran!"

Her grandson, Liam, burst through the front door and into the living room, bouncing on his feet and panting with excitement.

"What have I said about running in the house?" Irene asked.

"Don't!" Liam replied, the word coming out in a breathless rush as he skidded to a stop in front of her.

Irene couldn't help but smile at him. He was a lovely boy, the spitting image of her eldest son at nine years old. If only he and his wife would move out of London, away from the crime and the pollution, to join her here at Privet Drive. London was no place for a young family, especially for such a sweet child. She imagined them living nearby, their visits more frequent, the loneliness less sharp of an ache at her breast.

For now, she'd stick to relieving them from long workdays, even if the train to and from London was a massive bother.

"What is it dear?" she asked, curiosity piqued by the excitement radiating from him.

"Gandalf is outside!"

It was almost half past seven in the evening, but Irene allowed herself to be dragged by the hand, following with an indulgent smile as her grandson led her towards the open front door.

The Dursleys were first to come into view. Vernon, large and usually proud was instead red with silent fury, walking as if every step brought him closer to calamity. Petunia was a chalky white, walking gingerly beside him as if queasy.

"You see him, Gran? In the purple suit!" Liam pointed excitedly. His small finger was directed at a figure that Irene hadn't noticed at first.

The subject of her son's fascination was aptly named. His long silver beard flowed down to his chest, clashing impressively with his pinstripe suit.

Vernon Dursley's precious sedan opened once more, revealing a boy around the same age as the Dursley's son. The young man was rangy, as if she'd caught him mid-growth spurt. There was an earnestness to him that made Irene immediately doubt every rumour she'd heard in the last few months about him, if this was the boy she believed him to be. It was a look she'd only seen in her son's eyes after returning from Kuwait in the early nineties.

The elderly gentleman turned to make eye contact with her, his blue eyes glittering through his half-moon glasses perched on his crooked nose. His gauche handkerchief seemed to fold over in place, almost like a bow. Blinking the sun out of her eyes, Irene convinced herself it must have been a trick of the light as they all entered the Dursley's home.

Once Vernon had slammed the door shut behind him, she returned to the living room with Liam in tow. Leaving him to set up the Monopoly board, she turned to the phone, immediately dialling a number she now knew by heart. There was nothing to do but gossip in this dull place.

After the connection was established, she didn't give the callee a chance to speak.

"Margaret, hello," Irene said in a low whisper, glancing towards the front door as if expecting a pair of electric-blue eyes to suddenly appear in view. "About that Potter boy…"

It only took the thunderous slam of the front door behind them for Vernon to explode.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY CAR!?" he bellowed, his face turning a deep shade of crimson, veins bulging in his thick neck. His usually neat hair was in disarray, his shirt collar stained with sweat, and his small eyes were practically popping out of his head with fury.

Dumbledore continued his slow, deliberate walk to the living room, eyeing Vernon quietly as he did so. "My good man, I merely made our journey as fast as possible. Like you, I wish to spend as little time in the other's company as possible."

Vernon's face twitched with anger. "I'm not your good anything, you – "

"You what?" Harry interrupted sharply.

Vernon continued as if he hadn't heard Harry. "Let me remind everyone in this room once again that cars do not drive through walls! Especially not my prized Audi!"

In Vernon's rage, his voice had almost reached a piercing shriek.

"I shall take a seat, I think," Dumbledore murmured to himself. "These old bones… many thanks for your hospitality, my good man."

With a leisurely motion, he made his way to the most lavish armchair in the room, the one Vernon usually reserved for himself, and sat down with a contented sigh, his long fingers steepled together at his chin.

Vernon's fury only intensified. "They certainly don't bounce into the air and ride the top of trees!"

Dumbledore looked up at him with mild curiosity, as though Vernon had just revealed some arcane knowledge. "Truly?"

With a careless wave of his hand, a familiar glass of mead appeared, brimming with a honey-gold liquid, and he took a small sip, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I won't bother to offer you refreshments this time round."

Vernon lost a little confidence at the sight of Dumbledore's wandless magic. Harry wouldn't have been surprised if he'd believed himself safe because Dumbledore's wand was hidden away in his breast pocket, but it didn't take long for his blustering to resume.

"Neither do they ford rivers! They respond to the steering wheel… not your infernal malarkey!"

Vernon was panting now as he jabbed a finger in Dumbledore's direction.

"Take a seat and be silent," Dumbledore said softly.

The command in his voice was such that Vernon could only do as told, sinking almost mindlessly into the sofa opposite. It may have also been the idle flick of Dumbledore's fingers that caused a glass to appear in Harry's hand. He took a cautious sip, finding it to be a crisp wine with a honeyed edge. It was certainly better than Slughorn's offerings.

"Or through people," Petunia said, her voice barely more than a feeble whisper. Her knees continued to shake, even as she took her seat beside her husband, her bony hands clutched so tightly together that her knuckles were white. During their remarkably short transit from King's Cross, Petunia had grown eerily silent, simply falling slack against her seat at the front beside Vernon, who had been fighting his steering wheel like a madman. In fact, Harry was certain she'd fainted.

Dumbledore's enchantments had taken them through and beneath the River Thames, within all manner of buildings, through the foliage surrounding the motorways, and at one memorable occasion, across the canopy of a small forest in the Surrey Hills.

"Where is your son?" Dumbledore asked.

Petunia blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt question. "Out with the Polkiss's eldest son," she replied hastily, wringing her hands.

"Likely out having harmless fun as boys his age do," Vernon said. He gave Harry a little glance. "Normal boys, mind you."

Harry hid a smirk at that pitiful lie, knowing full well where Dudley was likely to be—causing trouble somewhere with his gang, up to no good as usual. He settled comfortably on the plush, leather sofa to Dumbledore's left, his expression one of calm amusement. "Do you actually believe that? Dudley and his gang being harmless?" he asked, turning to Vernon, his eyebrow raised in mock curiosity.

Vernon's hands trembled as he pointed a thick finger at Harry. "You – "

"I recall telling you to be silent," Dumbledore said.

Harry had told Blaise that the Dursleys weren't worth cursing, but he had to admit they were certainly worth infuriating. Watching his uncle squirm as Dumbledore's calm scrutiny intensified once more was almost therapeutic.

"Anything I wished to say to you both I said last summer," Dumbledore said quietly. "Do you have anything you wish to say to Harry?"

For a moment, there was silence. Vernon looked from Dumbledore to Harry, his expression a mix of confusion and suspicion. Petunia, however, seemed more contemplative, her brows furrowed in an uncharacteristic display of thoughtfulness. Harry watched them both carefully, feeling a strange blend of emotions—anticipation, impatience, and a faint flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, they might surprise him. It faded as their faces eventually settled on befuddlement.

"This is goodbye," Harry eventually said. "For good."

Vernon looked as if Christmas had come early, his mouth curling into a wide, almost triumphant grin. "You hear that, Pet?" he crowed, his voice brimming with glee. "We're free."

Petunia remained remarkably pensive. "That… wizard. Is he gone then?"

"For now," Dumbledore replied. "He suffered a great defeat yesterday. Most of his followers are either dead or soon to be. Harry played a pivotal role in that."

A shudder wracked Petunia's form as her face paled. "We're still in danger then," she stated, rather than asked.

"Indeed."

Vernon's triumphant expression vanished as if wiped clean with a rag. The jaunty whistle he had just begun died in his throat as a wheeze, and his face turned a shade paler. He stared at Dumbledore, then at Harry, as if waiting for them to contradict themselves, to tell him it was all a misunderstanding.

"You're a killer now, boy?" Vernon finally managed to say, his voice wavering as he attempted to sound brave, but instead coming out weak, almost sickly.

Harry nodded. "Killed the witch who murdered Sirius Black, my godfather," he replied evenly, watching the impact of his words settle on his uncle's face. "I think you'd have liked her, actually. You both have such strong personalities." There was a slight, sardonic smile playing on his lips, one that didn't reach his eyes.

Dumbledore's lips twitched ever so slightly.

Vernon seemed to struggle to compose himself, his face turning a deeper shade of red, his moustache bristling with indignation. "You owe us," he blurted out sharply, trying to regain control of the situation. "Free room and board! All those years, we gave generous allowance for your… freakishness! The least you could do is protect us!"

"Vernon!" Petunia snapped. She shot him a warning look, but Vernon was on a roll at this point.

He turned his narrowed eyes back to Dumbledore. "Send that black wizard. Kingsley, was it? He protects John Major, our Prime Minister. He knows how to talk to… normal people. We only want the best for putting up with the boy."

Dumbledore laughed heartily. "Kingsley is far too important for such… drudgery," he said. "Besides, wouldn't you want your impressively normal life to be free of wizards?"

"Not if we're in danger from your kind!" Vernon shouted, his voice breaking in his desperation. "What about that other wizard on the platform with the woman in the dress? The well-dressed one? He's one of… you lot, right?"

Harry snorted, knowing all too well that Blaise would never forgive his uncle for doing anything remotely close to positive for the Dursleys.

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, considering Vernon with a look of mild curiosity. "Ah, but you see, my good man, danger is a part of life. It is not something that can be entirely avoided. It is not something that can be bargained away with demands or false bravado."

Vernon's mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, but no words came out. He looked to Petunia for support, but she merely stared at him, her face unreadable, her hands clutched tightly in front of her.

Dumbledore's expression softened, but there was no pity in his eyes, only a quiet, steady gaze. "The blood protection that protected your family will end tonight," he said calmly.

"And that's it? You promised our safety, Dumbledore," Petunia snapped.

"Indeed, I did," Dumbledore said. "Early tomorrow morning, Dedalus Diggle, an old friend of mine, will be arriving to ferry you to a safer location. I trust you'll be ready to move by then."

"But what about our belongings?" Petunia asked.

"I suggest you choose wisely. However, if you're willing to trust him and ask, he'll shrink and transport everything you ask for. He's a pleasant man."

Vernon, who had been sitting in stony silence, suddenly leapt to his feet, his face flushed with anxiety, sweat beading on his forehead. He made for the door, his movements jerky and frantic. "We'll have to find Dudders, Pet. We'll need to start packing right now!"

As he reached the doorway, Dumbledore's calm voice followed him. "Do you wish for me to remove the enchantments on your car?" he asked, his tone polite, almost casual.

Vernon froze, his back still to the room. He turned slightly, revealing that his face had once more become a mask of barely contained fury. "That car is likely tainted beyond reckoning with your… thingy," he spat, waving his arms madly. "I imagine the engine is with the fairies at this point. Do what you will with it. I will be having no part in its continued operation. The old BMW will do."

Petunia sighed heavily. "You loved that car, Vernon," she said softly, her voice laced with sympathy. "Are you sure – "

"Don't worry, Pet," Vernon said, forcing a tremulous smile onto his face, one meant only for his wife. "We survived the boy, we can survive what comes next."

With that, he turned and vanished onto the lawn, his heavy footsteps echoing as he made his way toward the driveway.

Dumbledore waved his hand, vanishing the glasses that now sat on the coffee table, and got to his feet. "It is hardly recompense, but I'm sure you can make use of the car, Harry."

Harry shrugged. "No idea what I'll do with a car, but we'll see."

An amused smile crossed Dumbledore's lips. "Kingsley or Alastor can give you lessons, if need be."

For a moment, Harry had an insane mental picture of Moody sat in the passenger seat screaming 'CONSTANT VIGILANCE' as Harry tried to parallel park.

"Kingsley would be better, I think."

"Undoubtedly."

Harry turned to an awkwardly waiting Petunia, sat in an almost painfully rigid fashion on the sofa opposite alone. "Shall I get my things, sir?"

"No need, Harry," Dumbledore said.

With a wave of his wand, there was a quiet click of Harry's bedroom door opening on the floor above, and all of Harry's belongings floated down the stairs in a quiet procession. It was a depressing sight; tattered, old clothing and various knick-knacks and toys Harry had stolen from Dudley's excess over the years. Nothing new, nothing not in a state of disrepair. Harry's real belongings remained in the trunk of the car, and Hedwig had been released from her cage before they left the station.

"Vanish the lot," Harry said. "There's nothing worth keeping."

He wanted no mementos of his time here, so it was almost a relief to see the last remnants of his existence in this place fade into nothingness. The sight of such unambiguous magic, even for such mundane tasks, left Petunia watching on with a queer twist of her mouth.

Dumbledore finally turned to Petunia.

"I will have to break my self-imposed promise," Dumbledore said, his voice having gained a harsh edge. "Lily would have been devastated to know the sheer neglect with which you treated her son. Your husband, I fear, is unsalvageable, but what say you, Petunia?"

Petunia's eyes widened, her mouth opening slightly, but no sound came out. "What?" she stammered, confusion knitting her brow.

"Is there anything you want to say?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore rose to his feet. "I'll wait in the car, Harry," he said softly, giving him a gentle nod.

With a soft click, the front door closed behind him.

Neither Harry nor Petunia spoke, instead watching the other.

"You should probably start pack – "

Petunia interrupted, "was that… was that your boyfriend and his parents?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected question. He felt a surge of frustration rise within him, knowing full well that Vernon would have plenty of disparaging opinions once he found the nerve, and Petunia would likely sit there, silent and frowning, offering no defence. Harry couldn't think of any reason for her to ask such a thing beyond a feeble attempt at reconciliation.

"It's a little too late to pretend to care about my life," Harry said. He was failing to keep his voice cool and steady. The pain in his voice, rich in the years of resentment he'd quietly nurtured, seemed obvious to even him. "You've never cared before."

Petunia nodded stiffly, her face as blank as ever. "I suppose so."

He had imagined this moment countless times, rehearsing the cutting words he would say, the calm disdain he would display. But now that the moment was here, all those imagined speeches seemed to dissolve, leaving behind the raw, unfiltered emotion he had tried so hard to suppress.

"Some of my most miserable moments were under your roof," Harry continued, unable to stop himself. "I'm sure my parents weren't saints, but I don't think they'd have had Dudley living in a cupboard if something happened to you and Uncle Vernon."

Petunia nodded once more, her silence an admission of guilt that stung more than any words could. Harry had always envisioned this confrontation differently. In his fantasies, he stood tall, calm, and dispassionate, delivering his final words with the same coldness they had shown him. But now, standing in front of her, all the years of bitter sadness crashed over him like a wave, threatening to pull him under.

He turned away to face the door through which Dumbledore had left, breathing slowly in a desperate bid to control himself. But even with his back turned, Petunia's unblinking red eyes and pale face seemed imprinted on his vision, her presence an oppressive weight that he couldn't escape.

"… Harry?"

Part of him wanted to turn around, to see if there was something more in her eyes, some flicker of genuine remorse or understanding. But a larger part of him resisted, unwilling to give her that chance, that moment.

Petunia's voice came again, closer this time, less hesitant. "Harry?"

He whirled around, finding her inches away, her hands trembling—whether in fear or a suppressed urge to reach out to him, he didn't care to know. The sight of her so close, so vulnerable, only fuelled the storm inside him.

"Don't!" Harry snapped. "I told you, it's too late for any of that."

They both knew what Petunia had to say, perhaps what she wanted to say, but even with the stricken expression on her face, she couldn't bring herself to say the words. He didn't think he'd take an apology well – not now, maybe not ever. It was likely for the best, and it was that realization that finally calmed him, provoking a strange sense of relief and weariness.

He finally looked her straight in the eye, and she did the same of him.

"Goodbye, Aunt Petunia. You can be normal now. Whatever that means to you," he said softly, almost gently.

Petunia's breath hitched, and for a moment, Harry thought she might say something more. But all that came was a whisper, so faint he almost missed it. "I never wanted any of this," she said, her voice tinged with a regret that came too late to matter. "Goodbye."

With that, he stepped out into the cool evening air, leaving behind the house that had been his prison, his torment, and finally, his past. He felt the weight of Petunia's stare with every step he took.

Dumbledore waited for him in Vernon's shiny black car at the driver seat, tinkering absently at the watch on his wrist. Harry slipped into the passenger seat beside him, stony-faced. With a rap of Dumbledore's wand against the steering wheel, a rippling sheen overtook the car's surface, the black paint shimmering like an abyssal oil, and the car shuddered into life. With a sudden surge, they lifted smoothly from the ground.

As they rose higher, the familiar, neatly trimmed lawns of Privet Drive became a patchwork of green and brown. The streetlights below dimmed to mere pinpricks, and the houses became little more than indistinct, dull squares in a lattice of suburbia.

There were no words said between them as they soared higher, breaking through a layer of thin, wispy clouds that clung like vapour to the darkening night sky. The car levelled out, gliding smoothly above the cloud cover, where the sun beckoned in the horizon to the west.

Fawkes appeared in a burst of golden flames, materialising in a burst of flames above the dashboard that filled the car with warmth. The phoenix trilled softly before perching on Harry's lap to nudge his head impatiently into Harry's stomach for attention. Harry quickly yielded by stroking his brilliant plumage. The combination of phoenix song and Fawkes' warm weight had Harry forgetting any emotional malaise and smiling weakly to himself.

He glanced over at Dumbledore, who was watching him with that familiar twinkle in his blue eyes, a small, knowing smile playing at the edges of his lips.

"Your aunt is a very proud woman," Dumbledore said. "I take it she couldn't bring herself to apologize."

Harry let out a small, humourless laugh, shaking his head slightly. "I don't think I would have let her, even if she tried. The memories… they're too painful. Too much has happened. I don't think an apology could ever change that."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, his expression one of quiet understanding. "Quite right," he murmured. "There are wounds that time alone cannot heal, and words, however well-meaning, are often poor salve for old scars. In truth, I can scarcely believe you forgive my part in placing you with the Dursleys."

"I'll always be resentful, but I can understand your reasoning. I was safe from Voldemort and his followers, and I'm grateful I didn't grow up knowing about my… fame."

Harry couldn't help but imagine another version of himself, strutting around with Malfoy as his best friend or something equally shambolic. He shuddered to himself. "Very grateful."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Indeed."

Fawkes suddenly let out a loud, insistent whistle, breaking the contemplative silence that had settled between them. The phoenix turned his head, his bright eyes fixed on Harry with an almost comical intensity, as if reminding him that he had stopped petting.

"He's so demanding," Harry muttered, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he resumed stroking Fawkes's gleaming feathers. The phoenix settled, but his eyes remained keen, watching the landscape blur past through the enchanted windshield.

"He just knows you're easy, Harry. I'm afraid you may have created a monster," Dumbledore said.

"Maybe," Harry said with a small chuckle. "Where are we going, anyway?"

A broad smile spread across Dumbledore's face. "Where else but Hogwarts? We'll land in the countryside and Apparate. As much as I enjoy the slow pace of Muggle transport, I'd like to reach my chambers before midnight."

Hogwarts. The promise of his true home had never been more tantalising, even after only having left in the morning.

Harry looked out the window, finding a convenient, little forest south of the M25, the trees clustered tightly together in a way that promised secrecy. He pointed to it. "How about there?"

Dumbledore peered out, his smile widening. "This will be tricky," he said with great cheer, "but I do enjoy a challenge!"

With a flourish, he tapped the dashboard with his wand, and the car began its descent, spiralling slowly towards the forest. Harry relaxed in his seat, enjoying the feel of weightlessness and Dumbledore's occasional rhythmic tapping of the dashboard with his wand. A gentle nibble of his thumb reminded him of his duty to Fawkes, which he resumed without complaint. His mind was quickly filled with the endless possibilities of the future. Even with Voldemort on the loose, it was indescribably good to be free of the Dursleys.

Harry would never see the Dursleys again, even years later when Dudley made overtures to reconnect. The Dursleys would be, at most, fleeting thoughts, memories of a difficult time long behind him. The best revenge, after all, would be a life well-lived, and Harry couldn't picture a good life that involved any reminder of this miserable chapter of his life.