ZZ—ZZ
A crackling buzz of electricity drifted down from the lamp post, and the dim bulb flickered erratically between light and darkness, struggling against its own failing filament.
Harry looked up at the sound. A swarm of insects circled the scorching bulb in endless loops, hurling themselves against the hot glass without hesitation or self-preservation. To creatures so small, that feeble artificial light was no different from the sun itself—irresistible, overwhelming, worth dying for.
It was a clear summer night in Little Whinging, Surrey.
The sky was nearly moonless, just a thin crescent barely visible, and the stars that should have blazed were smothered beneath the city's wash of orange sodium light and neon.
Below, the asphalt road gleamed as though not a single speck of dust had ever been permitted to touch it, and along both sides of the street, the trim gardens of identical terraced houses bloomed with flowers in every vivid color—red geraniums, purple petunias, yellow roses, all maintained with obsessive precision.
It was barely past nine o'clock in the evening.
Back at Hogwarts, Harry knew, the celebrations would still be in full swing—students dancing, music playing, joy flowing like the enchanted ceiling itself. But here, in this more modern and sterile corner of the Muggle world, every house on Privet Drive had already gone dark and silent, curtains drawn against the night.
Harry was not the least bit surprised by this. That was simply how the residents of Privet Drive were—early to bed, suspicious of noise, committed to conformity and routine.
Still, the abruptness of the transition—stepping directly from the magical world where he felt so completely at home into this parched, ordinary place that had never wanted him—made the weight in his chest press harder, made it difficult to draw a full breath.
'Just one night. By tomorrow morning I'll see Ron, Hermione, and Sirius again at Grimmauld Place.'
That thought, repeated like a mantra, made it easier to breathe.
A hundred feet ahead down the perfectly straight pavement, the only lit window on the entire street marked their destination—Number Four, Privet Drive.
Bryan set Harry's luggage trunk down onto the pavement with a soft thud. Harry grabbed the handle of his own case and fell into step behind his professor, walking toward the place he least wanted to be in all the world, the place that represented everything that had made his childhood miserable.
Watching that straight-backed figure walking two paces ahead of him, Harry felt a strange, fleeting unsteadiness—something like nervousness, though he couldn't quite identify why.
The last time he had been truly alone with Professor Watson, just the two of them without other students around, felt like a lifetime ago.
"Professor Watson?" Harry ventured.
"Mm?" Bryan responded.
Bryan was leisurely studying the flowers blooming in each little garden they passed, his hands clasped behind his back, responding with nothing more than a mild hum of acknowledgment.
Harry bit his lip, uncertain how to proceed. He was fairly certain the professor already knew what was troubling him—he always seemed to know everything but Harry wasn't sure he'd actually get an answer if he asked directly about his fears.
After a moment's hesitation, he decided to take the long way round.
"Sirius told me there was a massive breakout at Azkaban. Death Eaters escaped?"
"That's right—" Bryan's voice was slow, his gaze still lingering appreciatively over a particularly impressive cluster of bright blooms in one garden.
"Frightening, isn't it? All those dangerous prisoners free at once."
"Well—" Harry murmured vaguely.
Honestly, when he'd first heard the shocking news he had been genuinely shaken. But now, walking beside the man widely regarded as the most powerful wizard alive in the modern era, the fear felt thin and distant. It was hard to be afraid with Professor Watson beside him.
"How did they manage it?" Harry asked with genuine curiosity.
"You know, Harry—" Bryan began thoughtfully.
He glanced back at him over his shoulder, then seemed to notice for the first time that he was still wearing his formal wizarding robes from the tournament.
He flicked his wand idly, and the robes transformed smoothly into a neat pair of casual dark trousers and a short-sleeved shirt that looked perfectly ordinary and Muggle. Then he let out a slow sigh.
"Most things in this world—most conflicts, most victories and defeats—come down to one side planning carefully while the other is caught completely off guard."
Catching the puzzled, questioning look in Harry's green eyes, he continued.
"I'm sure you understand. Voldemort has long been plotting to free his followers from Azkaban—probably planning it for months, gathering intelligence. Meanwhile, the Ministry refuses to even acknowledge his return, much less heighten their guard against possible attacks. When you leave a gap that wide between vigilance and denial, it's no great mystery that someone will slip through. It's almost inevitable."
"Do you think—" Harry asked carefully, finally putting into words the fear he'd been carrying since hearing the news.
"Do you think Voldemort will move immediately against me? Send all his Death Eaters after me at once?"
"Oh, as for that—" Bryan turned and gave Harry a small, reassuring smile.
"I don't think he has the nerve to be quite so brazen."
"Because he's afraid of you and Professor Dumbledore?" Harry's voice lifted slightly with hope.
"Primarily Professor Dumbledore, Harry—" Bryan gently corrected him, still smiling.
"You have to understand the history here—Voldemort also graduated from Hogwarts, decades ago. In the years when he was still nobody, still Tom Riddle with no power or influence, Professor Dumbledore was already established as the most powerful wizard of the entire wizarding world.
More than that, Dumbledore is quite possibly the wisest man Voldemort has ever known personally, face to face. So, the psychological hold Dumbledore has over him goes far beyond a simple question of whose magic is stronger. It's about respect, fear, and the memory of being powerless in Dumbledore's presence."
Harry turned this over carefully in his mind, then looked again at Professor Watson's back and understood something.
He thought: if he himself somehow became a Dark Lord one day, armed with incomparable power and then someone told him he had to duel Professor Watson face to face, he would still flinch.
"Then—" Harry began.
"We're here, Harry," Bryan interrupted gently.
Bryan stopped in front of the one house with its lights still blazing—Number Four, with its perfectly manicured lawn and spotless windows.
"I'll knock!" Harry blurted quickly, stepping forward.
Meanwhile, Bryan turned his attention to examining the Dursleys' garden with apparent interest.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
The moment Harry's fist struck the door, the sounds from inside came all at once in a chaotic symphony—the crack of something colliding hard with furniture, a stifled yelp of pain that sounded like Uncle Vernon, the sharp smash of at least two glasses hitting the floor and shattering.
Then came the sound of hurrying footsteps, frantic and uncoordinated.
Harry stepped back to stand beside Professor Watson, bracing himself.
CLICK—
The door swung open abruptly, and both Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia appeared in the frame together, as though they'd been fighting over who would answer.
Their expressions were exactly what Harry had expected—flustered, frightened, and furious.
But there were differences: Aunt Petunia's long, drawn, horse-like face had gone completely white. Meanwhile, Uncle Vernon's round, fleshy face had turned a deep, mottled maroon like dangerously high blood pressure.
"Good evening, Mr. Dursley, Mrs. Dursley—"
Bryan stepped forward smoothly with a courteous smile, extending his hand to each of them in turn with perfect politeness.
"I trust my visit isn't entirely unexpected? I sent an owl ahead earlier today with a letter explaining the situation. I imagine you received it?"
Uncle Vernon looked as though he were struggling to breathe, his face was working strangely. Aunt Petunia stared at the professor's outstretched hand as if it were coated in something lethal, something that might contaminate her.
But in the end, Vernon mustered the courage to brush his fingertips briefly against Professor Watson's hand in the barest minimum of a handshake—Harry suspected this willingness was entirely due to the handsome face and impeccable manners, because nothing short of that social pressure would have made a Dursley voluntarily touch a wizard.
"Now then, Harry—" Bryan glanced back at him with a small, prompting smile.
"You've been apart for nearly a year. Don't you think you ought to say hello properly to your aunt and uncle?"
"Oh—right—" Harry snapped back to attention.
The unpleasantness of the previous summer flickered briefly through his mind. He gave the Dursleys a somewhat awkward, stiff nod.
"Good evening, Uncle Vernon. Aunt Petunia. I'm… back."
"Much better,"
Bryan gave an approving nod, then turned back to the Dursleys with effortless social polish.
"Might I assume I've received a warm invitation to step inside? I do hate to impose."
"Hrm—well—ah!"
Vernon wheezed and spluttered, his mustache were twitching, then finally shuffled backwards two reluctant steps to make room.
"Thank you—"
Bryan inclined his head graciously and crossed the threshold into Number Four with perfect composure.
"I must say, your agapanthus (lily of the Nile) is absolutely magnificent this year. Now then, Harry—oh, let me get that heavy case for you—"
He snapped his fingers casually. Harry's trunk rose smoothly off the step and floated gently through the doorway on its own, gliding past the Dursleys.
Petunia nearly screamed. Vernon flattened himself against the hallway wall, the flesh of his face was trembling, eyes were bulging as the trunk floated past him.
"If I'm not mistaken, there's another young person living here—a boy about Harry's age. What's his name again…" Bryan said conversationally.
"Dudley," Harry supplied quickly.
He craned his neck to glance into the sitting room and kitchen, looking for his cousin. There was no sign of him anywhere.
"Where is he tonight?"
"He's at Pier—" Aunt Petunia's voice came out strangled, as though someone had a hand around her throat. It was the first thing she had managed to say since the door had opened.
Harry understood at once and nodded to himself.
"Piers is Dudley's best friend," he explained to Bryan.
"Ah—" Bryan caught his meaning immediately, understanding the unspoken message.
"I do hope that isn't on my account?"
Vernon responded with more incoherent spluttering, unable to form words.
"Well—the hour is getting on," Bryan said smoothly, moving past the awkwardness. "Harry, given that we have an early start tomorrow morning, I'd suggest washing up and getting to bed promptly."
"Yes, Professor Watson," Harry answered without hesitation.
Then he picked up his trunk and made his way quickly up the stairs, grateful to escape, leaving behind what he imagined would be some painfully stilted and awkward small talk between Professor Watson and the terrified Dursleys.
"So then—" Bryan drew breath to speak once Harry was safely upstairs.
"You—you—"Vernon stammered.
His small, piggy eyes, set deep in his fleshy face, darted everywhere but at the handsome man standing in his hallway. At last, he managed to force words out:
"There's—there's no spare room in this house. Only Dudley's—"
He shot a lightning-fast, nervous glance at that bewilderingly improbable face, then added hurriedly: "Petunia's made it up with fresh sheets. Prof—… Sir."
"Oh—" A flicker of genuine surprise appeared on Bryan's face.
"That's very kind of you—really, the sofa would have done me perfectly well. But it would be terribly rude of me to refuse your generous hospitality, wouldn't it?"
"It's—upstairs—" Petunia raised a trembling hand toward the staircase.
"Wonderful, Mrs. Dursley—" Bryan replied pleasantly.
But instead of moving toward the stairs immediately, he turned and stepped calmly into the sitting room, surveying the space.
A casual flick of his wand, and the two shattered glasses on the floor reassembled themselves whole and pristine, the shards were flying back together. Then he conjured a bottle of fine mead from thin air.
"Before I turn in for the night—allow me to offer you both a small drink. Consider it a token of thanks for your hospitality. Shall we?"
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