The Hogwarts Express hurtled south, its familiar crimson carriages stuffed to the gills with boisterous young wizards. The noise inside the compartment was a celebratory din, a joyous chaotic tapestry woven from threads of summer anticipation and post-exam relief.
Students were locked in animated debates over how best to use their precious weeks of freedom. Some, Hermione-like in their earnestness, planned to use the break for advanced study, hoping to get a head start on the complex Transfiguration required for the next term.
Others, Ron-like in their enthusiasm, were planning elaborate Quidditch training regimes and arguing fiercely over the superiority of the newest racing brooms. A group of older students were passionately dissecting the recently released third installment of "A Ride with Werewolves," oblivious to the fact that half the cabin was eagerly awaiting a new series of video games that promised unparalleled graphics and immersive fantasy worlds.
Harry sat quietly by the window, watching the vibrant green farmlands of the countryside gradually give way to the sprawling, gray monotony of suburban London. The shift in scenery mirrored the abrupt shift in his own reality.
Ron was busy stuffing his face with the last of a giant Chocolate Frog, while Hermione was meticulously folding her exam schedules. "You absolutely, positively must come to The Burrow right away, Harry," Ron insisted around a mouthful of chocolate. "It'll be brilliant. Mum will feed you until you burst, and we can finally try that new defensive spell sequence we talked about. No more of Malfoy's floor-crawling nonsense."
Hermione nodded seriously. "Yes, Harry. Even a week later would be better. Do you really have to go back to… them?"
Harry forced a smile. "Just a quick stopover, you know. Dumbledore's orders. Blood magic, protection, all that." He didn't tell them the exact duration—a full month felt like a life sentence. "I'll owl you both the second I'm free, promise."
The final, wrenching screech of the train pulling into Platform 9¾ announced the end of their magical idyll. The platform was a controlled chaos of wizarding families: robes mingling with Muggle trench coats, owls hooting in confusion, and trunks being magically shrunk and enlarged.
The Hogwarts staff, acutely aware of the risk of exposing the secret to the throngs of ordinary commuters at King's Cross, worked quickly, ushering the students out in small, regulated waves.
After a final, lingering goodbye, with Ron giving him a rough pat on the back and Hermione hugging him with a worried frown, Harry stepped out of the magical boundary and into the overwhelming reality of the Muggle world.
He stood outside King's Cross Station, taking a deep, involuntary gulp of the polluted city air. The roar of traffic, the constant babble of commuter voices, the sheer density of humanity—it was all so loud and so aggressively normal. The profound loneliness hit him instantly. Hogwarts had been noise and magic and acceptance; this was noise and anonymity and the inescapable anticipation of dread.
One month. Thirty days.
Harry sighed, scratching distractedly at his already impossible mop of black hair. Why Dumbledore? Why this month? If I could just go straight to Swann Manor, Sebastian would never make me go through this. The thought of Professor Swann, his mentor and protector, not being here to greet him was a bitter pill. He had expected to see Sebastian's familiar, charismatic figure or perhaps a discreet Hogwarts functionary.
Instead, as he scanned the crowd, his eyes landed on a figure so jarringly out of place it momentarily stunned him.
It was Vernon Dursley.
But this Vernon Dursley was… different. He was impeccable. He wore a brand-new, charcoal-gray suit that looked expensive and tailored, complete with a crisp, elegantly knotted tie. Not a hair was out of place on his meticulously plastered head. He stood ramrod straight, and on his face was a smile—not the usual sneer of disgust, but a practiced, wide, businesslike grin, the kind he reserved for potential clients at Grunnings. He looked like he was about to close a seven-figure deal.
"Harry, you're back," Vernon announced, his voice carrying an unnatural, almost performative enthusiasm. "How was your… academic year?"
Harry blinked, thoroughly wrong-footed. Is this a trick? Did a stray curse hit him? The Vernon Dursley he knew would be scowling, barely acknowledging his presence, and certainly wouldn't be standing on a public platform looking like a candidate for Member of Parliament. Was it possible that a year of separation had actually diminished his uncle's self-hatred? Or had the promotion simply put him in such a good mood that he was capable of temporary civility?
"I'm fine, Uncle Vernon," Harry replied cautiously, holding his enchanted trunk close. "You… you look well. Did you change your car?"
Vernon beamed, puffing out his chest. "Indeed. A promotion to Regional Manager came through last quarter," he announced, gesturing expansively toward a sleek, gleaming black sedan waiting a short distance away—definitely not the old clunker they used to drive. "Required a certain level of presentation, naturally."
Then, Vernon's eyes began to flick nervously, darting repeatedly over Harry's shoulder and behind him, scanning the thinning crowd with thinly veiled anxiety.
"And… you came back alone, then?" Vernon asked, the calculated enthusiasm in his voice suddenly thinning, revealing a sharp, undercurrent of worry.
Harry was confused. What exactly does he mean, 'alone'? He certainly didn't have the audacity to bring Ron and Hermione uninvited. "It's just me," Harry replied, raising an eyebrow.
Hearing the confirmation—that Sebastian Swann, the man who had terrified him and held the key to his professional career, was not physically present to witness the handover—Vernon finally allowed a deep, ragged breath to escape. His shoulders visibly slumped an inch.
"Right. Good. Let's head straight home, then."
The journey back to Privet Drive was eerily quiet, punctuated only by Vernon's tense breathing and forced small talk about Harry's "school achievements."
Soon, they were pulling up to Number Four. Aunt Petunia was waiting in the manicured doorway. She, too, seemed to have undergone a slight transformation. While her neck was still elongated and perpetually strained, she offered Harry what could only be described as a tentative smile.
"Harry, you're finally home," she said, the words carefully modulated, lacking their usual acid edge.
Dudley, now a truly colossal figure of twelve years, was sprawled on the sofa, aggressively working a brand-new portable gaming console. He barely spared Harry a glance, merely grunting in acknowledgment.
"Yeah, I'm back," Harry smiled, the return of his cousin's familiar rudeness somehow comforting. "Dudley, I have a present for you."
The pronouncement worked better than any spell. Dudley froze. The sound effects of his electronic game died abruptly. His small eyes, buried in the puffy expanse of his face, widened in utter shock.
A gift? From Harry? In all their years, Harry had never willingly given Dudley anything. This was highly irregular. Was it a trick? Was the gift box going to explode? Dudley was torn between his ingrained suspicion and his boundless greed.
"W-what sort of present?" Dudley stammered, the suspicion warring with a sudden surge of avarice.
Harry reached into his suitcase and pulled out a bright, overflowing bag of magical confectionary—the kind Ron and Fred had stockpiled before the end of term.
"These are sweets from the wizarding world," Harry explained, holding up the colourful bag. "We've got a mix here: Fizzing Whizbees that make you float, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans—watch out for the booger flavour—Super Bubblegum, and Chocolate Frogs."
Harry paused, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, and these. The Zingy Honey Lollipops. They give you a real, powerful buzz. I hear they can actually make you feel quite… light."
As Harry explained the more outlandish effects, Dudley's disbelief crumbled into sheer, gluttonous fascination. His eyes shone with a dangerous, single-minded focus. He immediately snatched one of the Zingy Honey Lollipops and shoved it whole into his mouth.
Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon stood frozen at the archway, their faces a battleground of conflicting fears. They wanted desperately to scream, to forbid Dudley from ingesting any 'freakish rubbish,' but the memory of Sebastian Swann—and the inferred threat to Vernon's career—silenced them. They were terrified of the magic, but even more terrified of the consequences if they offended Harry, who was clearly the key to this Sebastian Swann character.
Then, Petunia's terror won. Dudley suddenly began to giggle uncontrollably, his skin tingling with energy. Without warning, he began to gently lift off the sofa, hovering a foot above the cushions, his body swaying like a balloon.
Aunt Petunia let out a piercing, strangled shriek, clutching at her meticulously neat collar. Uncle Vernon's face went a sickly shade of purple. He didn't yell, however. He merely clamped his lips together, his jaw muscles twitching violently.
"Wizards' belongings are never safe…" Vernon muttered under his breath, watching his son gently bump into the ceiling fan. "Dudley must not consume any more of that stuff!"
But Dudley, after a moment of weightless bliss, descended safely, tumbling back onto the sofa. He was ecstatic.
"Harry, those candies are AMAZING!" Dudley shrieked, instantly forgetting his suspicion and diving back into the bag.
Harry offered a serene, slightly wicked smile. "Dudley, if you're a good sport all month," he said, the implied threat beautifully masked as generosity, "I might just be able to send you even more magical treats later on." Dudley's entire countenance immediately morphed into that of a devoted, if slightly twitchy, henchman.
The shift in dynamics became even clearer later that evening, when Harry, still enjoying his tactical advantage, made a grand gesture.
"It's my treat tonight, Uncle Vernon," Harry announced, reaching confidently for his pocket. "I'm taking everyone out to dinner."
Aunt Petunia, Dudley, and Vernon all stared at him as if he had just transformed into a three-headed dragon.
Petunia swallowed hard, her eyes wide with shock. "Harry… where did you get the money for that?"
Harry smiled casually, pulling out a handful of crisp, Muggle banknotes that Sebastian had pressed into his hand as 'emergency funds.'
"Professor Swann gave it to me," Harry stated, using the full, formal title. "He said it was necessary to ensure I had everything I needed, especially when traveling."
The name—Sebastian—hit Vernon Dursley like a punch to the stomach. The immaculate composure shattered. Fine beads of sweat instantly erupted on his brow, ruining his precise hairline.
Sebastian. The man who controlled his entire professional destiny. The man he had promised—sworn—he would treat Harry with "due courtesy and generous hospitality."
A chill ran down Vernon's spine. Two weeks ago, his boss had received a very cryptic call about the importance of picking up Harry. Vernon knew, with a sinking dread, that if this Sebastian Swann character ever heard a whisper that Harry had to pay for his own dinner, Vernon's new Regional Manager position—and the sleek black sedan—would vanish in a puff of smoke.
"Oh, Harry, no, no, no need!" Vernon cried, waving his hands frantically, his voice wobbling. His desperate attempt to look generous came out sounding like a high-pitched squeak. "I insist, my boy! I am the adult. I shall treat! We must celebrate your safe return!"
Aunt Petunia, catching the silent, terrified signal from her husband, quickly jumped in. "Yes, Harry, of course! You don't need to spend your money, dear. We're happy to take you out. It's the least we can do."
Dudley, however, was still seething. He scowled deeply, his massive arms crossed, stewing in a fresh wave of resentment and jealousy.
What is this?! Dudley thought bitterly. Harry gets to fly through the air, he gets magical sweets, and now he gets to go out to a restaurant on a weekday?! I've been home for weeks and haven't gone out once!
Who exactly is the biological child in this house?! The injustice of it all tasted worse than a booger-flavoured bean. This summer was going to be war. But Harry, looking at the terrified faces of his aunt and uncle, knew that for the first time, he held the winning hand.