London was always gloomy, even in summer. In the second week of the holidays, Mrs. Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive, came downstairs to check on her nephew's chores after tidying up her precious son Dudley's room.
The dishes were washed. The floor was swept and mopped. The dining table was wiped clean. Everything was in order. She felt a small surge of satisfaction. After all, her family had provided her with comfort and security for years. Surely, her nephew should be grateful.
If it hadn't been for that incident—when her nephew had broken Dudley's toy, earning Dudley's wrath and forbidding him from entering his room—Mrs. Dursley wouldn't have had to clean Dudley's room herself. She sighed, a hint of regret twisting her features, then moved to the yard.
Their yard was modest, but Mrs. Dursley spent hours tending the flowerbeds. Or rather, she tended to her neighbors' affairs through the hedge, stretching her neck to spy on them. She took great pleasure in gleaning gossip, which often seasoned the Dursley family dinners.
Today, her attention was on a house diagonally opposite: Number Thirteen, Privet Drive. Only yesterday, she had overheard neighbors whispering about its mysterious owner. Rumor had it the man was reclusive, rarely venturing outside. When he did, he wore long, antiquated robes and carried odd accessories. Some even claimed to have seen him pour strange liquids from a steaming cauldron onto his flowers, muttering to them at night.
He was peculiar, undoubtedly. The stories stirred unpleasant memories, so Mrs. Dursley resolved to see him for herself.
But her plans faltered. Even after pruning her bushes bare, she caught no glimpse of the new neighbor. Still, the flowers in his garden were extraordinary—silver-blue blossoms with layered petals that seemed to shimmer infinitely. Even someone disinterested in flowers, like Mrs. Dursley, couldn't help but admire them.
Her attention soon shifted to Dudley and Harry, who were wrestling in the yard. Satisfied that the children were safe, she reluctantly returned indoors to prepare lunch.
Outside, Harry was suddenly seized by Dudley, his scrawny frame no match for Dudley's bulk. "Run, go on, run!" Dudley sneered, his round face twisting cruelly.
Harry's messy black hair and broken glasses—held together by countless pieces of tape—did nothing to soften Dudley's wrath. His green eyes, filled with disgust, stared up at Dudley as he struck Harry across the nose. Blood gushed immediately, but Dudley ignored it, gripping Harry's collar with a cruel grin.
"Hey, Dudley," called a freckled boy named Pier, Dudley's accomplice. He motioned toward Number Thirteen.
"Oh, right," Dudley said with sudden glee.
The house at Number Thirteen had become the subject of many playground rumors. Children whispered that an evil wizard lived there, feeding on children and watering his garden with their blood. Dudley, well aware of these tales, kept them from his father, knowing Mr. Dursley disapproved of such stories.
"No, Dudley! You can't do that!" Harry shouted, struggling against Dudley's grip. But his thin body offered little resistance.
"That's someone's garden!" Harry gasped. "You'll ruin it!"
"Even better!" Dudley laughed, excitement lighting his cruel eyes.
The trio reached the garden fence. After glancing around to ensure no one watched, Dudley hoisted Harry high and threw him over the hedge.
"No!" Harry cried as he landed among the silver-blue flowers, crushing several beneath him. Dudley and Pier fled, laughing, leaving the garden in ruins.
Harry froze, a strange mix of guilt and fear surging through him. The flowers—so delicate, so beautiful—seemed almost alive under his trembling hands. He noticed the soil, dark red like blood, and the rumors of the house flooded his mind. He wanted to run, yet couldn't move.
Just then, the gate of Number Thirteen creaked open.
A man stepped out. The first thing Harry noticed were the polished Oxford brogues and slim, well-fitted trousers. Further up, a crisp white shirt and a cowhide vest. On his fingers glinted two ancient silver rings, slightly tarnished by age. His golden hair was combed back meticulously, and his expression was stern, almost lifeless. He carried a watering can, yet his gaze fell immediately on the ruined flowerbed—and on Harry.
Albert froze. His eyes widened at the thin boy with petals clinging to him. The precious Moon Spirit Flower, the centerpiece of his garden and crucial to his magical experiments, had been disturbed.
"Flowers! My flowers! How did you—?" Albert's voice faltered, a mix of shock and anger.
Harry stammered, voice trembling. "I… I'm sorry! I… I'll fix them!"
"Fix them?" Albert's laughter was sharp, incredulous.
Instinctively, Harry knelt and cupped the damaged flowers in his hands. The act surprised him—he didn't understand why he did it—but it felt… necessary.
Albert watched silently, then stepped forward. He could see the boy hadn't entered the garden maliciously; he seemed guided by something else, something innate. "Alright, you can go," Albert said, exhaling. "Even if you damaged the Moon Spirit Flower, what can I do?"
Mid-sentence, he froze. Flowers in Harry's hands began to regain their shape, stems straightening, petals brightening. A subtle pulse of life radiated outward, rejuvenating the rest of the damaged garden.
Harry's heart raced. The Moon Spirit Flower, which had been ruined moments ago, now glowed in his palms. He looked up at Albert, eyes wide with disbelief.
A hand reached out, calloused and strong, brushing Harry's messy hair back. Fear mixed with awe. Was Albert the evil wizard the rumors described? Would he punish him, or worse? Harry felt a chill—he wouldn't have minded if the man struck him; after all, no one seemed to care about him anyway.
But then Albert's stern face softened, and a trace of a smile appeared. "Well done, kid."
Harry blinked, unable to speak. He didn't know whether to be terrified or relieved. Somewhere deep inside, though, he felt something shift—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, or a hint that maybe, just maybe, not all magic was dangerous.
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