"The Muggle world?"
Aria set down her copy of An Illustrated Guide to Beginner Transfiguration and looked up at her mother, light brown eyes wide with something that was equal parts surprise and sudden, rapid calculation.
"That's right!" Freya clasped her hands together, already glowing with the enthusiasm of someone who had made a decision and was thoroughly pleased about it. "I've always wanted to properly experience Muggle life — just a few months, nothing permanent. And your father has already agreed."
Vesper appeared from the study doorway, teacup in hand, wearing the expression of a man who had fought a battle and lost it gracefully. "If by agreed you mean conceded after extended negotiation, then yes. I agreed."
"Is there a difference?"
"Practically speaking? No." He sighed, took a sip of tea, and retreated back into the study.
Aria's fingers tightened slightly on the arm of her chair. "Where exactly are we going to live?"
"A place called Privet Drive — a little neighbourhood in Surrey. Very quiet, very orderly. All Muggle homes, well-kept, completely safe." Freya was already moving toward the stairs, her voice bright and decisive. "I've had the house arranged. We'll move next week. Both of you start sorting through what you need to bring — and don't leave any magical items lying around where they can't be concealed."
Her footsteps disappeared up the staircase.
Aria stared at the space where her mother had been standing.
Privet Drive.
Surrey.
The book slid off her knee and hit the carpet. She didn't notice.
Number Four, Privet Drive, Surrey. The Dursleys. Harry Potter.
She pulled herself together and turned to Vesper, who had reappeared in the study doorway with his teacup and an expression of mild resignation.
"Dad." She kept her voice even. "Why has Mum suddenly decided this? She's never mentioned it before."
Vesper crouched down to her level, in the unhurried way he had when he was about to say something he'd thought through carefully. "Your mother has been curious about the Muggle world since she left Hogwarts. She's always wanted to experience it properly — and she's said more than once that she wants you to grow up seeing more than just our world. Not to be limited by how things are done in pure-blood households."
He paused. Adjusted his glasses.
"And there is someone else. An old friend's child lives in that neighbourhood. Your mother has been worried about him for some time now, and she wants to be close enough to keep an eye on things."
An old friend's child.
Aria already knew. But she kept her face carefully neutral. "Who?"
Vesper glanced at the staircase, then back at her. He said nothing — just gave her a quiet look that told her she'd find out soon enough.
Word reached Malfoy Manor faster than seemed strictly reasonable.
By that afternoon, the front gates of Selwyn Manor burst open and Draco came through them at a flat run, his usually immaculate blonde hair flying in all directions, his face pink from exertion.
He found Aria in the library, packing books into a wooden crate, and came to a skidding halt in front of her.
"You're moving to the Muggle world?"
"Mm-hmm." She placed An Introduction to the History of Magic carefully into the crate.
"Why would you go somewhere like that?" His voice climbed immediately, indignation overtaking breathlessness. "There's no magic, you can't fly, everything is loud and strange, and my father says Muggles are all—"
He stopped.
Aria had turned to look at him with the particular quality of attention that meant she was listening closely and had an excellent memory.
Draco cleared his throat. Looked at the ceiling. "...Never mind."
"It's Mum's idea. We're only going for a few months."
"A few months!" He stared at her as though she'd announced something catastrophic. "That's ages! I was going to take you to Diagon Alley to see the new broom models, and to Malfoy Manor to see the east gardens — they're brilliant this time of year — and now you're just going to disappear to some Muggle street for months—"
"You could write."
"Owls are conspicuous in Muggle neighbourhoods!" He threw his hands up. "And Muggle houses aren't connected to the Floo Network, everyone knows that, it's completely impractical—"
"Mum has already decided." Aria turned back to the crate.
Draco stood beside her and fumed quietly for a while. Then he turned his face away, let out a long, aggrieved breath, and walked out without saying goodbye.
On the morning of the move, Aria came through the front door with her small box tucked under one arm — and stopped.
Draco was standing at the manor gates.
He had clearly gone home, composed himself, and returned with intention. His hair was neatly combed again. His robes were dark green, pressed and tidy. He was holding a box wrapped in deep blue paper with a ribbon tied far more carefully than a five-year-old should have been able to manage — which meant someone had helped him, and he had clearly directed that help with great seriousness.
He was looking determinedly sideways, cheeks slightly flushed, doing an unconvincing impression of someone who had simply happened to be passing.
"What are you doing here?" Aria asked, walking over.
"Just passing by."
He was manifestly not passing by. He lived in a manor three miles in the other direction.
As soon as she stopped in front of him, he shoved the box into her hands and stepped back quickly, as though he needed to create distance before she could hand it back.
"For you," he said, to the middle distance.
Aria looked down at the box. The ribbon was pale silver, the paper precisely folded at the corners. Prepared with real care. She pulled the ribbon loose and lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, was a Golden Snitch replica — exquisitely made, the wings delicate and perfectly formed. When she brushed it lightly with her fingertip, the wings shivered with restless mechanical life, exactly as a real Snitch would.
"Thank you, Draco." She looked up at him.
He finally turned to look at her properly. His grey-blue eyes were complicated — reluctance and grievance and something more stubborn underneath both of them.
"You have to come back soon," he said. "You're not allowed to stay in the Muggle world too long. It's not suitable."
"I'll come back."
"And don't go wandering off on your own, and don't talk to strange Muggles, and make sure your mother doesn't let anyone know about—" He was building up a full list now, chin lifted, tone earnest and slightly bossy, looking for all the world like a very small person who had decided being imperious was the only appropriate response to anxiety.
"Draco."
He stopped.
"I'll write to you," she said.
Something shifted in his expression. His jaw moved. Then he pressed his lips together, looked away, and said in a very small voice, "You have to. Properly. Don't just send short ones."
"I won't."
His cheeks had gone completely red. Without another word, he turned and walked quickly back to the Malfoy family carriage waiting at the end of the lane, climbed in, and pulled the curtain.
It twitched once, very slightly, as the carriage rolled away.
Number Four, Privet Drive was a neat two-storey house with brick-red walls and white window frames, indistinguishable at a glance from every other house on the street. The garden was tidy. The curtains matched. A welcome mat sat squarely in front of the door.
It was, Aria thought, a remarkably effective disguise for a completely ordinary life.
She stood in the centre of the living room and looked out through the front window at the house directly next door.
Number Three. The Dursley residence.
The curtain in the upstairs window shifted — just slightly, just for a moment — and a small, thin figure moved through the gap and was gone before she could properly see him. Dark hair. Small frame.
Harry.
Behind her, Freya was directing Pobby through the furniture arrangement with cheerful efficiency. Pobby had a Muggle-Blinding Charm active — to anyone watching from outside, he looked perfectly like a rather quick and capable removal man.
"Mum." Aria turned away from the window. "Why here, specifically?"
"Lovely neighbourhood." Freya straightened a lampshade with one finger. "Quiet, safe, good environment for—"
"Mum."
Freya paused. She looked at her daughter's face — the steady brown eyes, the patient, unimpressed expression — and after a moment, she crouched down and took Aria's hand.
"All right." Her voice was quieter now. "The boy next door. His name is Harry Potter. His mother, Lily, was one of my closest friends at Hogwarts." She stopped. Her thumb traced a small circle on the back of Aria's hand. "After what happened to Lily and James, Harry was placed with his aunt's family, and I've been uneasy about it ever since. I've done some quiet asking around, and the situation there isn't..." She exhaled. "It isn't good. So I wanted to be nearby. To keep an eye on things. To make sure he isn't entirely alone in it."
"How do you know it's not good?" Aria asked softly.
Freya smiled — a small, private sort of smile — and ruffled her hair. "Mum has her ways."
Aria looked back toward the window. The curtain next door was still now.
Harry Potter, she thought. Five years old and already carrying everything that's coming for him.
She had known this was the plan — or suspected it, from the moment her mother had said Privet Drive. She had known and had not known what to do with it.
She still didn't, entirely.
But she was here now. And so was he, just on the other side of a garden wall.
Future things can wait for the future, she'd told herself, in the garden at Selwyn Manor.
She had a feeling that was going to become harder to hold onto.
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