This fanfiction is a non-commercial, transformative work created solely for entertainment purposes. All rights to the original Harry Potter universe, characters, and concepts belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros., and their respective copyright holders. No profit is being made from this story, and no infringement of intellectual property is intended. Any original characters, plotlines, or world-building elements introduced here are the property of the author. This work is not endorsed by or affiliated with the original creators or rights holders.
With a soft pop that seemed to gently nudge the silence of Privet Drive, Albus Dumbledore and Millicent Bagnold appeared out of thin air. The two figures stood out against the backdrop of cookie-cutter houses, with Dumbledore's robes a symphony of plum and gold, and Millicent's attire stately and official. The evening air carried the scent of trimmed lawns and the distant aroma of dinner.
"Ah, suburbia," Dumbledore murmured, half-moon spectacles glinting as he surveyed their surroundings. "Quite the charming uniformity."
Millicent offered a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Charming indeed, Albus, though I suspect we may disrupt the tranquility."
"Only slightly, Minister," Albus replied with a twinkle in his eye. "Shall we?"
They proceeded up the path to number 4, where the door swung open before they could even knock. Petunia Dursley stood there, her expression taut like a bedsheet pulled too tightly over a mattress.
"Good evening, Mrs. Dursley," Dumbledore greeted her, his voice as warm as a woolen blanket. "I hope we're not intruding at an inconvenient time."
Petunia's eyes darted from Dumbledore's beard to Millicent's stern face. "What is it you want?" she asked, her voice brittle.
Millicent stood at the threshold, her request hanging in the frosty air. Petunia's gaze lingered on the uninvited guests, her expression a mix of apprehension and disdain. She hesitated, her hands gripping the dish towel tightly as if seeking comfort in the familiar texture.
"May we come in?" Millicent's voice cut through the chilly night, a blend of insistence and courtesy. Petunia's thin lips pressed into a tight line, her eyes flitting between Dumbledore and Bagnold before finally settling on Millicent.
"Not inside," Petunia replied curtly, her tone laced with tension. "Let's talk here." She led them to the front yard, where the moon cast an ethereal glow on the neatly trimmed lawn and white picket fence.
The Dursleys' house loomed behind them, its facade exuding an aura of rigid orderliness that clashed with the magical presence now standing on their doorstep. Petunia kept a wary distance from their cloaks that billowed subtly in the night breeze, whispering secrets of a world she had long rejected.
Dumbledore's silver beard glinted under the moonlight as he inclined his head towards Petunia. "We understand your hesitation," he began, his voice carrying a soothing cadence that belied the gravity of their conversation. "But this matter is of utmost importance."
Petunia's grip on the dish towel tightened further, her eyes flickering with unresolved conflict as she faced these emissaries from a realm she had tried so hard to keep at bay.
"Vernon!" she called, her voice sharper than the crease in her husband's work trousers. "Vernon, come here at once!"
Footsteps thudded from somewhere deep within the house, and soon enough Vernon Dursley appeared, his mustache bristling like a badger alerted to danger. He took one look at the visitors and puffed up like an indignant pigeon.
"What is the meaning of this?" he boomed, planting himself squarely between the wizards and his wife. "I'll have you know we are a respectable family, and we'll not have any...any of your lot bringing your nonsense into our home!"
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turning upward in a smile that seemed to say he'd expected nothing less. "Ah, Mr. Dursley, I can assure you our business is of a most serious nature."
"Serious or not," Vernon blustered, the word 'serious' taking flight and crashing loudly amongst the trinkets on the mantelpiece, "we won't be party to it. Be off with you both before I call the authorities!"
Millicent, who had been observing the domestic tableau with an air of detachment, now spoke with a calmness that belied the steel in her words. "Mr. Dursley, while I appreciate your concern for your family's reputation, I must insist—"
"Insist all you like," Vernon interrupted, puffing out his chest so that his tie seemed in imminent danger of strangulation. "We'll have none of your wizarding wheezes here. This is a wizard-free household!"
Petunia, hovering anxiously behind her husband, wrung her hands on her apron, the floral print crumpling under the pressure of her fingers. Her eyes darted between the two wizards, as if by sheer will alone she might usher them back out into the night. But the visitors stood firm, their expressions etched with a determination that suggested they would not be swayed by bluster or bravado.
"Vernon," Petunia whispered, a note of caution threading through her voice, "perhaps we should hear them out. Just...just to be rid of them more quickly."
"Absolutely not!" Vernon barked, although the slight quaver in his voice hinted at uncertainty. "I won't stand for any funny business. Not in my house!"
Despite the tension crackling like static in the air, there remained an undercurrent of warmth that refused to be extinguished – the sort of warmth that arises when even the most trying circumstances are met with a touch of humor and the faint hope that, in the end, all would be well. The living room held its breath, waiting to see which force would prevail.
Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled mischievously behind his half-moon spectacles, a sharp contrast to the stiff posture of Vernon Dursley, who seemed ready to inflate with indignation. With a calmness that belied the situation, Dumbledore leaned forward ever so slightly, the moonlight catching the silver threads in his long beard.
"Vernon, Petunia," he began in a voice as smooth as velvet, "I must impress upon you the importance of our visit. It is not within your power—or indeed anyone's—to send us away without a hearing."
"Quite right," Millicent Bagnold chimed in, her tone equally firm yet devoid of any malice. "Should we be forced to discuss these matters here on your doorstep, I fear your neighbors might find the spectacle rather... intriguing."
The corner of Dumbledore's mouth quirked upward, as if the thought of causing a scene in such a tranquil suburban setting held a certain appeal.
Petunia, whose face had drained of color at the prospect of a commotion, glanced nervously towards the neat row of houses, their windows like watchful eyes in the dark. She imagined curtains twitching, heads peeking out, and the inevitable gossip that would follow. With a resigned sigh, she stepped aside, nodding for them to enter.
"Fine," she muttered under her breath, shooting Vernon a look that promised further discussion in private.
Upon entering the living room, the scent of lemon polish and fabric softener filled the air—a testament to Petunia's dedication to domestic order. As Dumbledore and Millicent crossed the threshold, their robes swishing softly, a hush fell over the room, as if the house itself acknowledged the gravity of their presence.
It was then that Petunia's gaze fell upon the basket cradled in Dumbledore's arms. Tucked within, a tuft of jet-black hair peeked out from a soft blanket, stirring something deep within her. Her eyes widened at the sight of the sleeping child, and her heart, which she so often kept under strict surveillance, skipped an involuntary beat.
"Is that…" Her voice trailed off as she reached a tentative hand towards the bundle, but she withdrew it quickly, as though burned by the very idea of what lay inside.
"Yes, Petunia," Dumbledore said gently, catching her eye with a knowing look. "This is Harry."
There was a silence, heavy with unspoken questions and fears, as the reality of what this visit meant began to take hold. But even in the stillness, there was something undeniable—an invisible thread being woven into the tapestry of their lives, altering its pattern forever.
Petunia's fingers twitched at her side, a physical manifestation of the unease that rippled through her as Dumbledore gently placed the basket on the sofa. The child within stirred slightly, blissfully unaware of the weight of the moment.
"Petunia," Dumbledore began, his voice soft yet carrying an undercurrent of solemnity, "I'm afraid I bring grave news. Your sister, Lily, and her husband James have met a tragic end."
A sharp gasp escaped Petunia's lips, her usual composure slipping like fine china in greasy hands. "Dead?" she uttered the word as though it were foreign to her tongue.
"Indeed," Millicent Bagnold added, her tone respectful but firm. "They were killed just three days past."
"Killed? But how?" Petunia's eyes, wide with shock, darted between the two wizards, seeking an answer that would make sense of the chaos that had suddenly intruded upon her orderly world.
"An act of dark magic," Dumbledore said, his expression one of deep sorrow mingled with a resolve that suggested he had weathered many such storms. "It is a loss felt deeply by our community."
Petunia's hand flew to her mouth as if to stifle the emotions threatening to break free. Her eyes, however, betrayed her—a tumultuous sea of anger and grief swirling within them. "Why are you here, then? If they're gone, what do you want with us?"
Her words were sharp, each one edged with a lifetime of jealousy and estrangement, yet there was no missing the pain that underscored her outburst. For all the years and harsh words that lay between them, blood was blood, and Lily had been her sister.
"Because, Petunia," Dumbledore replied with a touch of warmth that seemed to wrap around her like a comforting blanket, "Harry needs a home. And you are his only family left."
In the cramped living room of Number 4, Privet Drive, the silence following Dumbledore's announcement felt as heavy as the old curtains that draped the windows. The tension was palpable, with only the soft ticking of a clock to measure the passing moments.
"Harry will be safest with you," Millicent Bagnold said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a knife through butter. "The Ministry has resolved that he should be placed in your care."
Vernon Dursley, who had been lurking like a disgruntled bear at the back of the room, surged forward. His face, already a shade reminiscent of his burgundy tie, darkened further with aggravation. "Now, see here!" Vernon blustered, his mustache bristling indignantly. "You can't just come into our home and—"
"Mr. Dursley," Millicent interrupted, holding up a hand as if to physically push back his words. "This is not a matter open for debate. It's been decided."
"Decided?" Vernon spluttered, casting a wild-eyed look towards his wife, who appeared equally perturbed but considerably less vocal. "By a bunch of—of cloak-wearing buffoons?"
"Vernon!" Petunia hissed, though whether it was a reprimand or a plea for him to tread carefully was unclear.
"Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore interjected, his tone soothing yet carrying an undercurrent of steel, "I assure you, we have Harry's best interests at heart. And, by extension, yours."
Vernon's mouth snapped shut, and he glowered at the wizards, clearly wrestling with the urge to argue further. The basket containing Harry, which had been set down gently on the floral-patterned sofa, emitted a soft coo, as if the infant inside were oblivious to the storm of adult emotions swirling around him.
Despite the gravity of the situation, there was something almost comical about the sight of these two worlds colliding—the mundane suburbia of the Dursleys' home and the extraordinary reality that the wizards represented. It was the stuff of storybooks, yet here it was playing out in real life, complete with an unamused uncle and a magical baby in a basket.
Vernon's mustache bristled like an agitated hedgehog as he paced the length of the cramped living room, his footfalls heavy on the threadbare carpet. "Another family," he muttered under his breath, shooting a glance at the wizards as if they were door-to-door salesmen peddling an especially unwanted product.
"Surely there must be someone else," Petunia chimed in, her voice thin but insistent. She wrung her hands, the skin stretched taut over her knuckles like parchment. "Someone more... suited to this sort of thing."
The two wizards exchanged a glance that held volumes. Dumbledore, serene as a statue with his half-moon glasses perched on his nose, regarded the Dursleys with a patience that seemed to stretch on like the endless corridors of Hogwarts.
"Finding another family is not a feasible option," Dumbledore said gently, and Vernon's pacing halted as abruptly as a car running out of petrol.
"Feasible?" Vernon echoed incredulously, his cheeks puffing out. "And what, pray tell, makes us 'feasible'?"
"Your connection to Harry, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore replied, as if explaining why the sky was blue to a particularly slow student. "It is essential for his well-being."
"Essential," Vernon scoffed, folding his arms across his chest in a manner that would brook no argument. But the look in Dumbledore's twinkling eyes suggested that resistance was about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
"Magic," murmured Petunia, a shiver passing through her as she glanced at the basket where Harry lay, blissfully unaware. "All that magic, it's not right."
"Petunia, dear," Vernon said, his tone softening a fraction as he placed a hand on her shoulder. "We're normal people, we don't need this... this disruption."
"Normal," Dumbledore mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "A rather subjective term, don't you think?"
"Subjective or not, we simply cannot have a wizard in the family," Vernon declared, his voice reaching a near bellow, causing a vase on the mantelpiece to tremble.
"Especially not around our Dudley," Petunia added, her eyes flickering toward the closed door behind which their son undoubtedly plotted the downfall of action figures.
"Indeed," Dumbledore acknowledged, nodding solemnly. "Your concerns are noted, but I assure you, Harry will bring much more to your lives than you can currently imagine."
"More what, exactly?" Vernon harrumphed, skepticism etched into every line of his face.
"Ah, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore replied with a twinkle in his eye, "that would be telling."
Vernon's mustache bristled with indignation as Dumbledore, the very picture of patience, clasped his hands together, his half-moon spectacles catching the light from the overhead lamp. "I understand your hesitations," he began, the warmth in his voice soothing the tension in the air like a well-cast charm. "But there is something you must know about Lily Potter's last act."
Petunia, her arms crossed defensively, leaned forward ever so slightly. A mixture of fear and curiosity flickered across her face, the way shadows play on a wall during a storm.
"Before her untimely demise, she performed an ancient ritual of protection—a mother's final gift to her son." Dumbledore's eyes, blue as a clear winter sky, held a reverence that commanded attention.
"Ritual?" Vernon snorted, less out of disbelief and more as a shield against the unknown. His skepticism, however, did little to deter the wizard's explanation.
"Indeed, Mr. Dursley. It was a powerful enchantment, one that bound her very life force to Harry's survival." The old wizard's fingers lightly brushed the basket where Harry slept, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.
"Protection?" Petunia's voice was a whisper, a leaf trembling on the brink of fall.
"Quite so," Dumbledore affirmed. "And because of this bond, Harry carries with him not only his mother's love but also her magical protection—protection that extends through blood relations."
"Blood relations?" Vernon sputtered, missing the import of the headmaster's words as his gaze darted between his wife and the infant.
"Your blood, Petunia," Dumbledore said softly, his gaze settling on her with a gentle firmness. "You share Lily's blood. As long as Harry can call your house a home, he will be safe from certain... adversities."
"Meaning?" Petunia pressed, her eyes narrowing as if trying to discern fine print on an unseen contract.
"Meaning," Dumbledore continued, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, "that while he may be a wizard among Muggles, Harry's presence here will ensure a measure of safety that no other dwelling could offer."
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with the weight of unspoken possibilities and the soft breathing of a child who had unknowingly become the center of their world.
Vernon's face had reddened to the shade of a ripe tomato, his mustache twitching in barely suppressed irritation. "And why exactly," he huffed, glancing down at the slumbering child with something akin to disdain, "should we burden ourselves with this—this boy? What is he to us?"
Petunia, standing just a hair's breadth closer to the basket than was strictly necessary, allowed her gaze to linger on Harry for a moment longer before facing the wizards. Her voice lacked the bluster of her husband's, edged instead with a cold practicality. "Yes, why should we?"
Millicent Bagnold bristled at the question, her stern expression hardening like set stone. "Because," she began, her tone brooking no argument, "the Ministry of Magic has resolved that it is in the best interest of the magical community—and the boy—that he remains with his closest kin."
"Closest kin?" Vernon repeated incredulously, as if the very idea was offensive to him.
"Indeed," Millicent snapped, her eyes flashing dangerously. "And let it be clear, Mr. Dursley, that this isn't a matter open for debate. The Ministry will enforce this arrangement."
Vernon opened his mouth to retort but seemed to think better of it as he caught the unwavering glare of the Minister of Magic. A sense of finality hung in the air, as tangible as the dust motes dancing lazily in the shafts of sunlight streaming through the front window.
Vernon Dursley's mustache twitched like a caterpillar in a stiff breeze, his face the color of overripe plums as fear and indignation battled for prominence. He cleared his throat, an attempt at regaining some semblance of control.
"Fine," he said gruffly, "the Ministry wants us to take the boy, but who, may I ask, will foot the bill for his keep? We're not made of money, you know."
The tall witch, Millicent Bagnold, stood unflinchingly, her robes barely rustling despite the tension that crackled in the air of the Dursleys' impeccable living room. She looked down her nose at Vernon, her voice calm and measured, betraying none of the heat from earlier.
"Mr. Dursley," she began, with a tone that made it seem like she was discussing the weather rather than altering the course of a young boy's life, "the Ministry is well aware of the...sacrifices involved in raising a child. Therefore, we will provide a stipend for Harry's safekeeping."
"Stipend?" Vernon's eyes widened behind his beefy fingers as he stroked his mustache, a feeble attempt to hide his surprise, or perhaps greed. "And how much are we talking about?"
"An amount that will adequately cover the essentials for Harry's upbringing without spoiling him," Millicent replied with a hint of a smile playing on her lips, as if she could see right through Vernon's facade.
"Essentials, eh?" Vernon mumbled, glancing sideways at Petunia, who remained silent, her thin lips pressed into a line like they were holding back all the words she wanted to say.
"Indeed," Millicent nodded once, firmly, as if hammering the point home. "Just so we understand each other, Mr. Dursley, this arrangement is for the boy's welfare, not a windfall for you."
Vernon harrumphed, looking as though he'd sucked on a lemon, but the crease between his bushy eyebrows softened ever so slightly. The promise of financial assistance seemed to have taken the edge off his resistance, if only just.
Vernon's mustache twitched as if it were trying to crawl off his face and escape the room, while Millicent Bagnold elegantly adjusted the sleeve of her robe, the fabric falling just so to reveal a glint of something metallic beneath. It was clear that the Ministry's involvement in Harry Potter's life would extend beyond mere financial transactions.
"Additionally," Millicent began, her voice as smooth as silk yet carrying the unmistakable weight of authority, "the Ministry will conduct periodic checks to ensure Harry's well-being."
"Checks?" Vernon's voice rumbled like distant thunder, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
"Indeed," Albus Dumbledore interjected, his tone light as if discussing the most trivial of matters. "Unobtrusive visits, purely to ascertain young Harry is growing healthy and happy."
Despite the tension, there was something almost comical about the way Vernon appeared to puff up, ready to launch into further protest, only to deflate slightly under Dumbledore's twinkling gaze.
"Rest assured, we intend to minimize any... disturbances to your household," Millicent continued, her lips curling at the edges as she peered over at Harry, who was peeking out from his basket with wide, curious eyes.
"Disturbances," Vernon echoed, the word rolling around his mouth like a bitter pill he couldn't swallow.
"Harry's basic needs must be met, you understand," Dumbledore said warmly, the soft chime of his voice belying the steely undertone. "Food, clothing, and a bit of love wouldn't go amiss."
"Love?" Petunia uttered the word as if it were a foreign concept, yet her gaze lingered on the small bundle that had caused all the fuss.
"Of course," Millicent said with a nod. "We wouldn't expect anything less."
The room fell silent for a moment, save for the gentle ticking of a clock and the muffled sounds of the world outside number 4, Privet Drive. It was a peculiar standoff, with each adult measuring the other, until finally, Vernon cleared his throat.
"Very well," he grunted, capitulating with the air of a man signing away his soul—or at least his peaceful suburban existence. "But not a word of this to the neighbors!"
"Perish the thought," Dumbledore replied, his eyes sparkling mischievously.
And with that, an uneasy truce was formed, woven together by the promise of quiet supervision and the unspoken understanding that the well-being of The Boy Who Lived was now, quite unexpectedly, in their hands.
Petunia Dursley's eyes darted from the wizards to the slumbering child in the basket, a sudden crease forming between her brows as she wrung her hands. "But what about... you know," she muttered, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the living room where Dudley, her precious son, was likely demolishing his toy soldiers with blissful ignorance.
"Ah, you're concerned about young Harry's magical outbursts, I presume?" Dumbledore surmised, stroking his silver beard thoughtfully as he peered over his half-moon spectacles.
"Exactly," Petunia snapped, her voice hushed but sharp. "I won't have any... abnormalities around my Dudders."
Millicent Bagnold stepped forward, her expression softening in an attempt to assuage Petunia's fears. "We understand your concerns, Mrs. Dursley," she began, her tone soothing like a balm. "However, we may have a potential solution that could help."
Dumbledore nodded in agreement. "Young wizards can exhibit sporadic bursts of magic, especially when they're emotional. It's quite normal, albeit unpredictable. But there is a way to minimize such occurrences."
Petunia's eyebrows arched skeptically, her gaze flitting between the two visitors, seeking assurance. "Go on," she urged, her curiosity piqued despite herself.
"An ancient but rather benign ritual," Dumbledore explained, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief as if he found the situation mildly amusing. "It can gently bind the magic within Harry, reducing the likelihood of accidental magic. Especially around little ones like your Dudley."
"Bind his magic?" Petunia repeated, the idea seeming to take root in her mind as a possible solution to this unwelcome problem.
"Indeed," Millicent chimed in, her voice carrying an air of authority that left little room for argument. "The effects are temporary and will ensure a more... non-magical environment, shall we say."
Petunia looked at the sleeping infant, who remained oblivious to the adults' plotting. "And it's safe?" she asked, the motherly instinct momentarily surfacing through her usual stern demeanor.
"Perfectly," Dumbledore assured her with a nod. "We would never propose anything that could harm Harry or those around him."
"Very well," Petunia said after a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line as she conceded to the necessity of the arrangement. "Do what you must, but do it quickly. And quietly."
"Discretion is our middle name," Dumbledore replied with a playful wink, and though Petunia didn't smile, there was a certain relief in her posture—a belief that perhaps this peculiar arrangement might just work after all.
"Then it's settled," Dumbledore declared, his voice a soothing balm in the tense atmosphere of the Dursley's living room. Vernon huffed, arms folded across his chest, but didn't protest. Petunia merely nodded, her gaze fixed on the slumbering Harry as if by sheer will she could keep any errant sparks of magic at bay.
"Best get on with it," Vernon grumbled under his breath, eyeing the wizards warily.
"Indeed," Millicent Bagnold agreed, pulling her wand from within the folds of her robe. "The sooner we begin, the sooner we can assure your household remains... how shall I put it? Uniquely unmagical."
"Will it take long?" Petunia asked, her tone suggesting she had a long list of chores waiting for her attention once these peculiar visitors departed.
"Not at all," Dumbledore assured her, his blue eyes scanning the room for an appropriate spot. "A few minutes, perhaps. We simply need to prepare a small space."
"Here, then," Petunia said, motioning toward the cleared dining table that normally hosted mundane meals rather than ancient magical rituals. She swept a last crumb from the tabletop with the edge of her hand, her movements efficient and brisk.
"Perfect," Dumbledore said with a nod. He and Millicent moved with silent coordination, their wands leaving trails of shimmering light as they traced symbols around the table's perimeter. Even the air seemed to hum with anticipation, or perhaps it was just the buzz of the fluorescent kitchen light—it was hard to tell with wizards about.
"Stand back, please," Millicent instructed, her tone brooking no argument. The Dursleys stepped away, Vernon's frown deepening as if each glowing rune offended him personally.
"Observe," Dumbledore invited them, his wand held aloft. With a flourish and a murmur of words too soft to catch, the light coalesced into a gentle dome above the table, casting everything in a warm glow. It was old magic, the sort spoken of in whispers and found in the dustiest corners of the library—a binding of protection and suppression, a safeguard against the untamed magic of youth.
"Is that it?" Vernon asked, suspicion lacing his words as the light faded, leaving no trace of its passing.
"Indeed," Millicent replied, her lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile. "Harry's magic is now bound. It will unravel naturally with time, but for now, your home is quite safe from unexpected... incidents."
"Good," Petunia said, her voice a mix of relief and residual irritation. "We'll hold you to that."
"Of course," Dumbledore said, turning to leave with a grace that seemed incongruous in the cramped suburban setting. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have other matters to attend to. A world of magic awaits, after all."
And with that, the two wizards stepped out into the fading evening light, leaving behind a house that felt, for all intents and purposes, just like any other on Privet Drive—save for the boy who slept, unaware that the weight of destiny rested lightly upon his young shoulders.
Albus Dumbledore straightened his robes with a flourish that made the mundane living room seem suddenly smaller, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to catch a glimpse of magic. The Dursleys stood shoulder to shoulder, a united front of wariness and reluctant acceptance.
"Thank you for your cooperation," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying the warmth of a summer's day despite the coolness of the room. "I assure you, Harry will be no trouble at all."
Vernon grunted something unintelligible, his mustache twitching like an agitated caterpillar. Petunia's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting nervously towards the basket where Harry lay, blissfully asleep and unaware of the fervent negotiations over his future.
Millicent Bagnold stepped forward, her stern gaze softening just a fraction. "Remember, we'll be providing a stipend for the boy's upkeep," she reminded them, her tone implying it was more a command than a courtesy. "And we'll be monitoring, discreetly, of course."
"Of course," Petunia echoed, almost to herself, as if trying to summon the conviction to believe that anything about this arrangement could be considered ordinary.
"Magic has a way of making itself known," Dumbledore added, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "But fear not, the accidental bouts should now be kept to a minimum, thanks to our little... intervention."
"Should?" Vernon's voice was gruff, but the tremor did not escape notice. "You mean to say they might not?"
"Let's just say," Dumbledore replied, a mischievous glint playing across his features, "that young Harry is quite special, and magic, much like life, finds a way."
"Right, well," Vernon huffed, clearly out of his depth and not fond of the feeling. "As long as there's no funny business."
"'Funny business' is a matter of perspective, my dear man," Dumbledore chuckled. "But I shall leave you to your... muggle devices."
With a final nod, Millicent turned on her heel, her cloak swishing dramatically as she moved towards the door. Dumbledore offered one last grandfatherly smile to the Dursleys, before following suit.
"Goodbye, then," Petunia said, her voice barely rising above a whisper. There was a hint of something else there—regret, perhaps, or the ghost of familial love long suppressed.
"Goodbye," Dumbledore echoed, his voice a soothing balm. "Take good care of our Harry."
The door closed with a soft click, leaving behind a silence that seemed to echo with the unspoken words and what-ifs of the night. Outside, the stars twinkled overhead, the same stars that shone over the world of wizards and witches—a world that Harry, sleeping soundly in his basket, would one day come to know as his own.