Harry stopped just short of Privet Drive, clutching his basket of laundry and wiping at the sweat beading along his forehead. The sun had baked the pavement into a shimmering mirage, and the heat rolled off the asphalt like an open oven. Even though Mrs. Figg's house wasn't that far, the return trip always felt longer—probably because it led straight back to Number Four.
He frowned at the thought of it. The walls of the Dursleys' house had a way of smothering him, stealing the air from his lungs. Weekends were always like this: monotonous, miserable, and noisy in all the worst ways. If Dudley wasn't thundering about like a baby hippopotamus, then Vernon was shouting about "discipline" and "standards," and Petunia—oh, Petunia—was usually craning her neck out the kitchen window to gossip about the neighbors.
Currently, she was obsessed with whether Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, two doors down, were headed for divorce. Harry suspected she'd probably throw a celebration if they did.
Harry sighed and scratched absently at his cheek. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, caked with dried mud and dog hair. Pip's old Labrador had tackled him earlier when they were playing in the garden. He glanced down at his stained clothes and grimaced.
There was no universe where Aunt Petunia wouldn't notice.
He could already hear it: "Filthy boy! Ruining perfectly good fabric!" And, if Dudley was feeling particularly creative, Harry would probably get blamed for global warming, the rising cost of petrol, and whatever other woes struck suburban Surrey that week.
"Unacceptable," Harry muttered to himself. "Absolutely blasphemous."
He slowed as Number Four came into view and considered his options. Maybe, just maybe, he could sneak in through the back before anyone noticed. Sundays usually meant Petunia left the back door unlocked after tending to her prized rose bushes. If he played it right, he could get inside, change into clean clothes, and act like he'd been innocently folding laundry all afternoon.
He edged along the fence and hoisted himself up, gripping the ridges carefully to avoid splinters. His head peeked over the top.
The back door was open.
Good sign.
No horse-faced aunt, no walrus of an uncle in sight.
Even better sign.
But then Harry spotted him.
There, hunched over the outdoor faucet, was a wild Dudley in his natural habitat: sweating profusely, wheezing, and panicking. He was frantically scrubbing something under the stream of water, muttering to himself like a guilty toddler.
Harry narrowed his eyes to see what it was.
When he finally realized, his face split into a grin so wicked it could've belonged to Peeves the Poltergeist.
Dudley was attempting to wash a baby-blue, floral scarf.
Not just any scarf, though.
The scarf.
Petunia's most prized possession.
Vernon had given it to her years ago after his promotion at Grunnings, and according to Vernon, it wasn't just a scarf—it was a "symbol of status, boy!" A gift from the wife of Grunnings' founder herself. It was only ever taken out for special occasions, like overly formal dinners or slightly less formal dinners.
Harry had no idea how Dudley had gotten hold of it, but he didn't need to know. All that mattered was the leverage this moment presented.
His mind raced.
"What to do, what to do?" he thought, lips curling into a mischievous smirk.
And then—aha!—he had it.
Harry hopped off the fence and sprinted down the street. He stopped at the gutter where an empty soda can lay discarded, grabbed it, and stuffed it full of small pebbles and dirt. Then, after a brief detour into the Roberts' backyard, where the fence was conveniently low, he filled the can with water from their hose.
Perfect.
He darted back to Number Four and snuck to the front porch, heart thudding with excitement. Carefully placing the trap, he rang the doorbell and dashed back around to the garden, pressing himself against the fence just as Vernon's booming voice rattled the front door.
"WHO IS IT?!"
Right on cue, Petunia's shrill voice followed:
"WHERE'S MY SCARF?!"
Harry bit back a laugh. Excellent.
Now for the finale.
He lobbed the soda can full of pebbles and water over the back fence. It landed with a clatter and an almighty splash.
Dudley yelped.
Petunia shrieked.
Vernon roared.
And Harry strolled casually back to the front door, slipping inside as the chaos unfolded outside.
Step one: dirty clothes off, tossed into his "designated" laundry basket.
Step two: clean T-shirt and shorts on.
Step three: quick rinse at the sink and a sniff test under the arms. Passable.
Within minutes, he was transformed from grubby miscreant to angelic young nephew.
Basket in hand, he sauntered into the backyard just in time to witness the scene in full bloom.
Petunia was screeching at Dudley like a banshee, waving the soggy scarf in his face. Dudley, ever the strategist, puffed up his cheeks like a bullfrog and began crying loud enough to summon the dead. He stomped his feet dramatically and flung himself to the ground.
"I WASN'T PLAYING WITH CANS, MUM!" he wailed.
"LIAR! DON'T LIE TO MUMMY, DUDDYKINS!" Petunia snapped, tugging his ear sharply.
Vernon stood nearby, turning an alarming shade of crimson, caught between roaring at Dudley and protecting Petunia's honor.
Harry, of course, couldn't resist twisting the knife just a little.
He caught Dudley's eye and grinned like a Cheshire cat.
Then, ever so subtly, he gave a cheerful little wave.
Dudley's face contorted in betrayal and rage, but there wasn't a thing he could do about it.
Oh, the dangerous games Harry played.
He hummed under his breath as he marched over to the laundry line, acting perfectly innocent while the chaos raged behind him.
"Great day, this," he murmured, barely suppressing a laugh.
Because in this house, small victories were everything.
---
--Hogwarts Castle--
Minerva McGonagall climbed the winding staircase to the Headmaster's office, her heels clicking against the worn stone steps. She was breathing a little harder than she'd have liked to admit, more from irritation than exertion.
"Chocolate Toffee," she muttered to the gargoyle at the top, and if a word could ever be laced with disapproval, hers certainly was.
She sniffed sharply, glaring at the ridiculous statue as it obediently leapt aside.
"Honestly," she said under her breath, "for a man of his stature, one might think a proper, dignified password would be appropriate. But no, it's always sherbets, fudge, and chocolate toffees. Little jokes, indeed."
The spiral staircase began to move beneath her feet, carrying her up toward the polished oak door. The faint sounds of scratching quills and rustling parchment filtered through from within. Minerva straightened her robes, squared her shoulders, and knocked.
"Come in," came the familiar, merry voice.
She entered the circular office, her lips twitching despite herself at the curious chaos within. Books teetered in improbable stacks, half a dozen enchanted instruments whirred and puffed small streams of smoke, and the portraits of former headmasters pretended very badly not to eavesdrop. Behind the great claw-footed desk sat Albus Dumbledore, perched in old-fashioned robes of plum and a small pointed hat that seemed quite unnecessary indoors. His half-moon spectacles perched at the tip of his crooked nose, and his long silver beard pooled lazily over the edge of his desk.
A quill danced in his hand, scratching across parchment.
"Ah, Minerva!" he exclaimed, glancing up with a bright smile. "Finally. I've been waiting all day. Sit, sit."
Before she could object, he flicked his wand and summoned two teacups, a teapot, and an entire tin of biscuits that sailed gracefully to the table between them.
Minerva sat primly, crossing her ankles beneath her chair as she accepted the teacup.
"Thank you," she said stiffly, though the aroma of Earl Grey eased some of the irritation from her shoulders.
They sipped in silence for a while, the room filled with the quiet creaks of the castle settling and the occasional chirrup from Fawkes, the magnificent phoenix perched nearby. The red-and-gold bird preened its feathers, letting out a soft trill as though greeting Minerva personally.
It was Dumbledore who finally broke the quiet.
"I am terribly curious," he said lightly, stirring his tea without looking up, "what reason you could possibly have had to spend the entire day at Number Four, Privet Drive. Particularly when I happen to know you find those particular people…" He gave her a knowing smile. "...less than agreeable."
Minerva stiffened, teacup paused halfway to her lips. "You always were far too perceptive for your own good," she sniffed, setting the cup back into its saucer with a faint clink.
Dumbledore leaned back comfortably, his blue eyes twinkling maddeningly.
Still, she launched into her account, relaying every detail of her long, exasperating vigil. From Mrs. Figg's cryptic warnings to the sight of young Harry sneaking about like a little street fox, she gave it all in precise, clipped sentences.
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully throughout, occasionally chuckling at her expense, which only deepened the colour in her cheeks. It was infuriating, really, how effortlessly the man seemed amused by things she found entirely unacceptable. It reminded her uncomfortably of her early Ministry days, when she'd made certain "bold choices" that were, in hindsight, not quite as clever as she'd thought.
Finally, after her recounting wound to an end, Dumbledore set his teacup aside and said gently, "Harry has certainly grown well, I see."
"Yes," she admitted reluctantly, lips pursing. "Despite his shenanigans." A pause. "He doesn't seem particularly unhappy. Not on the surface, at least."
Her sharp gaze flicked to him, searching.
Albus said nothing.
The silence stretched.
Minerva huffed, setting her cup down with more force than necessary. "Albus. The boy is not happy, anyone with eyes can tell that. Isn't it time? Haven't we kept him away long enough? Surely we can begin to introduce him—slowly—to all of this?"
Her voice softened slightly at the end. "Isn't there another way?"
Dumbledore's twinkle dimmed just a fraction as he folded his hands before him.
"I understand your concerns, Minerva," he said, and there was a weariness beneath his calm tone. "But as the boy himself once said after reading that book Mrs. Figg gave him—'Magic is so troublesome.'" His lips quirked faintly. "He has no idea how right he is."
She stared at him, unimpressed by his deflection.
"The magic he wonders about," he continued, his voice quieter now, "has created many problems. Problems that would find him, were he to leave Privet Drive. And I fear he is not yet ready to face what waits beyond those walls."
Minerva sighed heavily, rubbing at her temples. She knew he was right, but knowing didn't make it easier. Bringing Harry back into the wizarding world would be like tossing a pebble into a still pond—the ripples would spread quickly, drawing attention from exactly the sorts of people they'd worked so hard to keep away.
She closed her eyes briefly. "I only wish it were simpler."
Dumbledore regarded her silently for a long moment, then reached for a biscuit.
"But," he said lightly, almost as though to change the subject, "I am rather intrigued by Arabella's suggestion."
Minerva blinked at him. "Her what?"
"That he be allowed to read," Dumbledore clarified, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Some of the older, fanciful texts. Nothing dangerous, of course. The 'silly antique books,' as you so charmingly called them."
"I—!" she sputtered, affronted, but Dumbledore only smiled wider, mustache quivering faintly.
"Under Arabella's supervision, of course," he added mildly. "I daresay the boy would be quite interested in simpler magical theories. Tales of wandlore, enchanted beasts, and broom-making techniques… to him, they would be no more than bedtime stories."
Minerva hesitated, calculating quickly. It was a risk. But a controlled one. And, if she was honest with herself, the thought of Harry poring over dusty old tomes with wide-eyed fascination made her lips twitch faintly.
After a lengthy debate, they settled on terms: a carefully curated selection of texts, supervised readings, and frequent reports from Arabella. Dumbledore insisted she be the one to choose which books were safe, and she didn't miss the flicker of mischief in his eyes when he said it.
By the time she rose to leave, her irritation had softened. Walking back down the spiral staircase, Minerva found herself imagining the look on young Harry's face when Mrs. Figg placed the first book in his hands.
It would be priceless.
---
Much later, the office was quiet again.
Dumbledore sat alone at his desk, spectacles perched low on his nose, massaging the bridge wearily. The teapot was empty now, the biscuits long gone, and the fire had burned low in the grate.
He opened a drawer and drew out a collection of reports, bound together in a neat stack. His expression hardened as he skimmed the pages, the cheerful twinkle in his eyes giving way to something heavier.
For eight long years—even before Voldemort's fall—he had kept meticulous records of the Dark Lord's movements. And now, at last, the pieces were aligning in unsettling ways.
The reports from Albania were deeply troubling.
Entire villages, both magical and Muggle, were facing strange disturbances. Packs of werewolves had been sighted roaming near the borders. Magical creatures, usually harmless, had turned violent and erratic. Mysterious illnesses were spreading—diseases so complex even St. Mungo's healers were struggling to contain them.
Albus traced a finger along the map pinned beside his desk, his eyes settling on a dark stretch of forest.
There.
Deep in Albania, Voldemort lingered, wraithlike and silent, biding his time.
And worse still—Dumbledore knew he was not entirely alone.
Visitors had been seen entering the forest. Dangerous ones.
He closed the file slowly and leaned back in his chair, staring into the dying fire.
Mysterious things were happening in Albania.
He only hoped they would fade with time.
If not… drastic measures would have to be taken.