A hearty response echoed, and in the next second, Alfred vanished into thin air. But this was not the end—rather, it was just the beginning.
Under the shocked gazes of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, the toys Dudley had carelessly left in the corner of the living room sprang to life. They grew legs, hopped about, and danced hand-in-hand, scampering up to the second floor. From the sound of it, they headed straight for Dudley's room.
Inside, the scattered items began tidying themselves at a rapid pace. Truth be told, even Vernon and Petunia weren't always sure where some things belonged. Yet, as those objects floated to their places on tables or inside cabinets, the couple let out simultaneous sighs of relief—as if those items had always belonged there, perfectly pleasing to the eye.
The dining room grew brighter—not in the simple sense of sunlight intensifying, but as if everything in sight had shed the marks of time, becoming pristine and radiant once more.
Every speck of dirt vanished completely. Vernon and Petunia suddenly felt their fingers brush against something, and when they nervously lifted their hands, they discovered that even their wedding rings gleamed as if freshly polished.
Er, even their fingernails seemed to have been buffed to a dazzling shine.
Among the decorative plants, the wilted yellow leaves Petunia hadn't yet dealt with were whisked away into the trash bin. The fertilizer she'd bought floated in midair, dispersing itself evenly into each flowerpot. A watering can soared up, diligently tending to every plant.
In the nearby kitchen, pots, pans, and dishes took flight. Ingredients leapt from the fridge, and a kitchen knife began chopping on its own. Time in the kitchen seemed to accelerate—perhaps a few seconds? A few minutes? Maybe ten?
By the time Vernon and the others snapped out of their daze, their noses caught a new scent—a unique aroma unlike any of Petunia's usual dishes. It was the fragrance of an unfamiliar recipe, steaming from the pots, accompanied by the clatter of dancing plates.
In the end, the food arranged itself neatly onto plates, which floated out of the kitchen and landed on the dining table. Remarkably, the breakfast Petunia had prepared earlier hadn't gone cold despite the passage of time; it remained at the perfect temperature.
Truthfully, Dudley had been itching to dig in for minutes now. He didn't care where the food came from—as long as it tasted good, that was enough for him.
As for Vernon and Petunia… it was as if they'd rehearsed it. Their mouths hung open in identical astonishment, utterly unable to believe what was unfolding before their eyes.
The doorbell rang, and the front door opened and closed on its own. A newspaper trotted up to Vernon, politely folding itself neat and tidy. To his right, a freshly trimmed cigar had appeared out of nowhere.
Vernon, still dazed, picked up the cigar with his fingers. He thought of fire—and the moment the thought crossed his mind, the cigar was already lit, as if it had always been so.
The changes were overwhelming, to the point that the Dursleys barely recognized their own home.
Most astonishingly, all of this was happening simultaneously—in the dining room, the living room, the kitchen, and even from the sounds coming from upstairs. It was chaotic yet orderly, like a symphony where every part played its role, imbued with a peculiar beauty that drew one in.
Even straining their eyes to take it all in, they couldn't keep up. Their minds couldn't process it fast enough.
Dudley stared, slack-jawed, at the ham slicing itself. A silver fork diligently arranged broccoli into the shape of a Gothic castle. Gravy trickled along the plate's edge like a miniature waterfall, while strips of bacon curled into rose bouquets in the frying pan. Oil splattered like flecks of gold foil, gently settling onto the caramel-colored fried egg in Dudley's plate, a radiant sun.
It was like a dream. The Dursleys didn't even have time to feel repulsed or hateful—er, more accurately, they didn't have time to think or loathe.
Honestly, Harry thought Alfred might have gone a tad overboard.
The Dursleys ate the meal in a dreamlike state. When Petunia stood to clear the table, the used dishes dodged her hands. Eight pairs of silver knives tap-danced across the cream-colored tiles, arm-in-arm, heading for the kitchen. Not a single drop of grease fell from them during the entire performance.
Petunia instinctively gripped the leather armrest of her chair—her beloved bone china tea set was waltzing above the sink, tea stains swirling into a pale brown cascade with the water.
Vernon's face turned the color of liver, the veins in his neck bulging like barnacle-encrusted anchors. He instinctively gulped his tea, only to find the cup never emptied. Even Petunia's empty teacup refilled itself with steaming tea laced with marigold petals. The roar building in his throat turned into a strange gurgle.
Dudley's smelly socks, wedged in the sofa crevices, were yanked out. An invisible hand pinched their edges, and the stains on the cuffs shrank like receding tides into tiny dots, finally transforming into mint candies that rolled into the trash.
As if struck by a sudden thought, Vernon headed upstairs to check on his bedroom. But on the third step, he froze as the staircase glowed—firefly-like specks shimmered in the wood grain, forming words:
Beware of Master Dudley's spilled orange juice.
Before the text faded, the sticky liquid coalesced into an amber crystal, rolling into a bucket that was autonomously mopping the floor.
Curious, Harry wandered the house. At the corner of the staircase, by the cupboard under the stairs where he once lived, he found a glowing onion skin. In elegant script, it read: Raspberry cake on the third shelf of the fridge.
The onion skin then crumbled into powder and vanished—likely a dessert Petunia had prepared for the evening's banquet. Harry didn't mind.
Even the leather sofa in the living room was giving itself an oil treatment. The dent where Vernon always sat bubbled up, and as the leather stretched, it let out a satisfied sigh.
All the changes were confined to Number 4 Privet Drive, maintaining a delicate balance. Every miracle stopped just at the edge of the Dursleys' comprehension and acceptance, teetering between aversion and delight.
When Vernon frowned at his self-lacing shoes, the tips would instantly collect a "reasonable" amount of dust, comforting him without triggering unease.
As for Dudley, he was having a blast—so much so that it took Vernon's scolding to remind him guests were coming that evening.
"This won't do, boy," Vernon said cautiously, sitting on the sofa but avoiding his usual spot. He looked at Harry. "These things—these—witchcraft? Tricks? Whatever these bizarre things are—how can we use them to entertain guests? We'll be seen as freaks!"
"We'll be labeled lunatics, locked in an asylum, and the Dursley name will be ruined! My company will be finished! You, us—we'll all end up on the streets!"
His emotions surged, causing his words to stumble.
"He means these things can't be seen by others," Petunia hurriedly added. "The neighbors will gossip, and everything will be over!"
"Yes! Yes, exactly!" Vernon nodded vigorously. "We can't let anyone see these strange, dangerous, inexplicable… things!"
"I think the house is brilliant today, Dad!" Dudley, who was boxing with a stack of plates, turned excitedly. "This is way more fun than school!"
"Quiet, Dudley!" Vernon snapped, a rare reprimand. Rubbing his hands, he continued to Harry, "This won't do—I mean, it's not good—well, not bad either, er, I mean it's quite nice."
Vernon seemed to have lost his ability to think or speak coherently.
Even now, his mind lingered on the earlier sensation of having his every desire fulfilled without a word—just a thought, and what he wanted appeared in his hands, effortlessly comfortable and considerate.
Even the pickiest Vernon couldn't find fault with it.
This feeling permeated every Dursley, especially Petunia. Seeing the house spotless and gleaming, she felt relieved, finally free from endless chores.
"I think it's nice too," Petunia said. "But the food won't do. My Dudley will throw a fit if he doesn't get my cooking."
"Then you can still prepare the meals," Harry shrugged. "Don't worry, Uncle, Aunt. Today was just Alfred's attempt to make a good first impression, so he went a bit overboard."
"Rest assured, he won't appear in front of outsiders or let anyone notice anything odd."
"Like dancing coffee makers? Or plates fighting my son?" Vernon interjected, suddenly raising his hand. "Well done, Dudley!"
No reason, just that Dudley had "defeated" the stack of plates and was now raising his arms in a victorious howl.
"Yes, all these things—anything tied to magic—won't appear in front of anyone but family," Harry reaffirmed. "To the Masons visiting tonight, they'll only find our home exceptionally thoughtful, with everything arranged to their liking."
"No matter what they need, they'll find it within reach. They'll think you, Uncle, went to great lengths. They won't suspect anything unusual."
"With Alfred here, the Masons will leave the dinner with one impression—"
"That we're completely in sync, our families perfectly aligned," Vernon finished eagerly, cutting Harry off.
"Yes, they'll feel nothing but joy and satisfaction, with no negative thoughts," Harry said, tilting his head. "Right, Alfred?"
Pop!
"Yes, Master Harry!" Alfred reappeared on the floor. This time, the Dursleys' gazes toward him were warm and eager. He squealed, "Alfred won't let Master Harry down! His Muggle uncle will seal his big deal tonight!"
Alfred's final words put Vernon in high spirits. He laughed heartily, confirming multiple times that Alfred wouldn't be noticed by guests, and thus the evening's plans were set.
And as Harry predicted, everything went smoothly.
The Masons experienced a level of comfort at Number 4 Privet Drive that even Muggle royalty might envy, so much so that they couldn't stop raving about it as they left, their praise overflowing.
Vernon even arranged to play golf with the Masons in their free time—a sign of deepening ties in Britain.
Staking the pride of a house-elf, Alfred pulled out all the stops to ensure the Masons had an utterly delightful evening.
Vernon, as hoped, secured a massive order from the Masons. As he'd said, it was a crucial day. When Mr. Mason signed the contract, Vernon's face flushed with excitement.
"Well done!" The moment the Masons' car drove off, Vernon spun around and clapped Harry's back—not in punishment, but pure exhilaration. "Boy, well done! Mason said he had a marvelous evening. He said our house felt almost magical, every detail perfectly comfortable. He barely wanted to leave!"
"Yes, Uncle, we heard," Harry said, unfazed by the hearty slap. He couldn't help adding, "It'd be better if you didn't react so strongly to the word 'magical.' You nearly startled Mrs. Mason."
Ignoring the neighbors' potential stares, Vernon let out a booming laugh.
"You've got to understand, boy, any word with 'magic' in it makes me jumpy," Vernon said, unusually cheerful about magic-related matters. "No need to wait—tomorrow night, I say! Tomorrow night, we'll buy a vacation villa on Majorca!"
Majorca, a popular destination in Spain's Balearic Islands, is renowned for its stunning beaches and pleasant climate, a dream spot for many Britons.
"This is all thanks to you, boy," Vernon declared, thumping his chest. "You get to pick your room in the villa first—before Dudley!"
For Vernon, this was a groundbreaking reward.
Even Dudley's wide-eyed protests and dramatic rolling on the grass didn't sway him.
For once, even Petunia, who doted on her son, didn't indulge Dudley's tantrum.
While Harry didn't care much about room placement, Vernon's change in attitude warmed his heart.
This was a good thing.
"Maybe you should thank the real hero behind all this, Uncle," Harry said, calling his house-elf's name. "Alfred?"
Summoned, Alfred appeared, puffing out his chest with pride. His homely face beamed with excitement—he reveled in this moment, in doing his job well, in achieving something significant. These were the things that brought Alfred immense joy.
"Oh, alright," Vernon said, nervously scanning the surroundings to ensure it was dark and no neighbors were watching—er, specifically, noticing Alfred. Only then did he bend down, tentatively and cautiously patting Alfred's shoulder, as if expecting the elf to suddenly grab him.
"Thank you, Alfred. You've been a great help," Vernon stammered, clearly unaccustomed to speaking with a non-human creature. "I mean… er, thanks?"
"You're welcome, Master Harry's uncle!" Alfred chirped happily. "Alfred can do even more!"
"That's grand," Vernon mumbled, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders and leading him back inside. "This… er, Alfred… I mean, that elf thing?"
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