I made the decision on an entirely ordinary morning.
There was no shouting.
No argument.
No dramatic breaking point.
Just an adult, weighing the facts, arriving at what he believed to be the most reasonable, safest, and most responsible choice.
I decided to send Harry away.
Not back to the original orphanage, but to another one. I had already looked into several—procedures, conditions, distance. All acceptable. All manageable.
It wasn't punishment.
It wasn't impulse.
It was the only decision a father could make after watching his child come within seconds of real harm.
I didn't tell Petunia.
Not out of guilt, but because I knew—
she would never agree.
And I no longer had the luxury of discussion.
I took half a day off work.
On the drive in, my thoughts were unusually clear. I found myself planning ahead—how to explain it, how to smooth things over, how to ensure that once it was done, life could return to its proper course.
Handled correctly, this could end cleanly.
That was what I told myself.
The office was normal.
Casual greetings. Paperwork piling up. Phones ringing. The world showed no sign of caring about the decision I had made.
Until ten o'clock, when I was called into my supervisor's office.
That, in itself, was unremarkable.
I knocked. Entered. Sat down.
He was reading through documents, not looking up.
"How are things at home lately?" he asked.
The question caught me off guard.
He had never shown the slightest interest in his employees' personal lives.
"Fine," I said.
He nodded, still turning pages.
"There are some matters," he said, "that are better not handled too… abruptly."
I looked up.
"What do you mean?"
He finally met my eyes.
Something about his expression made me uneasy.
It wasn't stern.
It wasn't threatening.
It was a calm that didn't belong to him.
"Certain decisions," he said, "attract unnecessary attention."
I frowned.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He closed the folder and folded his hands on the desk.
"You do," he said.
The air in the room seemed to thicken.
I opened my mouth, then realized I had no idea which part of that statement to argue against.
"Don't be too conspicuous," he added, his tone no different from discussing quarterly targets.
I stood up.
"If this is about work—"
"It isn't," he interrupted.
Then he paused.
"The child at your house," he said.
My stomach dropped.
"Do you have any idea what you're saying?" I asked quietly.
For a brief moment, his eyes went blank.
As if someone had switched him back to himself.
"…Sorry," he said, blinking. "What was I just talking about?"
Silence settled over the office.
He looked back down at his papers, as though nothing unusual had happened.
"You may go," he said.
I stood there, my heartbeat unsteady.
By the time I reached the hallway, my palms were damp with sweat.
At lunch, I tried to replay the conversation in my mind.
I remembered every word.
But when I tried to recall his tone, his expression, the way he had looked at me—
the details no longer aligned.
Not forgotten.
Just… wrong.
That afternoon, I refused to give up.
I didn't believe the world could truly corner an adult until choice itself was gone.
I slipped into the stairwell behind the building and took out my phone.
I remembered the number.
I was certain I did.
I pressed the first digit.
The screen lit up.
The second.
And as I moved to press the third—
My hand stopped.
Not hesitation.
It simply wouldn't move.
I frowned and pressed harder.
My finger trembled above the screen, hovering uselessly, unable to make contact.
"What's wrong with me…" I muttered.
I tried with my other hand.
The same result.
My mind was clear.
My intention unmistakable.
But my body refused to cooperate.
My heart began to race.
I forced myself to move.
And in that moment, I understood—
It wasn't that I couldn't.
It was that I was being stopped.
The phone vibrated.
Incoming call.
Unknown number.
I stared at the screen.
Before I could decide, the call was answered.
"You're persistent," a voice said—warm, polite, almost approving.
"Who is this?" I demanded.
"Someone who doesn't want you causing unnecessary trouble."
I let out a short laugh.
"If you think this is intimidation—"
"Not intimidation," he said calmly. "A reminder."
"A reminder of what?"
"You've been permitted to care for the child," he said. "There's no need to complicate matters."
"I have the right to decide who lives in my house," I said.
There was a brief pause.
"Of course," he replied. "As long as you're prepared to bear the consequences."
The call ended.
I leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
It wasn't fear.
It was certainty.
The confirmation of something I had refused to accept—
I no longer had the ability to resist.
I stood there, feeling as though an invisible hand had pinned me in place.
When I returned home, it was already dark.
Petunia was cooking. Dudley was doing homework in the living room. Harry sat quietly in the corner, head lowered.
Everything looked normal.
So normal that it made me doubt whether the day had happened at all.
That night, I took out the documents I had begun preparing.
And realized—
I couldn't remember when I had started.
Contacts were missing.
Addresses incomplete.
Even my call history was gone.
I sat at the table for a long time without moving.
Not angry.
Clear.
At last, I understood the truth.
This was never a choice I was meant to make.
Not because I lacked authority.
But because the authority had never been mine.
That night, I made a decision.
I would stop trying to send Harry away.
I would stop resisting openly.
I would stop speaking of it to anyone.
Not out of agreement.
Out of submission to reality.
I forced every trace of fear, anger, and doubt back down where it belonged.
At least inside this house—
at least in front of my son—
I would continue to act like a man who still held control.
Even though I knew perfectly well—
I was only being allowed to play that role.