Privet Drive, located in the quiet neighbourhood of Little Whinging, Surrey, was the sort of place where nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. Its residents took pride in their unwavering routines and in keeping every corner of the neighbourhood within the boundaries of an almost obsessive normality.
Every morning, the gardens were carefully trimmed, flowerpots arranged with almost mathematical precision, and house fronts inspected with painstaking attention, as though a single stain might bring about the moral downfall of the entire neighbourhood. The streets were spotless, the cars gleaming, the dogs always kept on leads, and the children—at least when anyone was watching—behaved impeccably.
Privet Drive was not a neighbourhood that tolerated surprises.
Any unusual behaviour was enough to inspire whispers, furtive glances, and raised eyebrows that could last for days.
So, when two figures appeared walking slowly along the pavement one grey afternoon, the delicate balance of the place seemed to falter, if only for a moment.
A few sets of blinds shifted by barely an inch. Eyes peered discreetly through lace curtains.
The first was a boy who could not have been more than thirteen, yet something about his manner and bearing suggested an unsettling degree of maturity. His dark, straight hair fell neatly into place, arranged with almost deliberate precision, while his grey eyes—cold and penetrating—moved constantly, taking in every detail of his surroundings with a calmness unusual for someone his age.
At his side, walking slightly behind him in a subtle gesture of deference, was a broad-shouldered man.
He wore a long, heavy coat that brushed the tops of his black boots, and in his right hand he carried a cane carved with intricate patterns that twisted and intertwined along the length of the wood. He did not appear to need it for support. Rather, he carried it with the sort of authority that transformed the object into something resembling an emblem.
His face was angular, marked by a strong jaw and hard eyes filled with a gravity that inspired both respect and cautious distance.
The mere sight of the two of them walking in perfect synchrony was enough to disrupt the otherwise flawless symmetry of everyday life on Privet Drive.
"It is a peculiar place," the man murmured thoughtfully, his eyes travelling over the rows of identical houses. "Far too monotonous. I think I'd lose my mind if I had to look at this scenery every day."
The boy's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.
"I suppose it has its charm," he conceded. "But yes, it would be exhausting to see the same view every day. It's like looking at the same painting over and over again—perfect at first glance, yet utterly devoid of a soul."
The man let out a brief, dry laugh, little more than a restrained sound in his throat, and nodded calmly.
Silence settled between them for several steps, broken only by the faint crunch of their shoes against the immaculate pavement.
"I still think it would have been better if Vinda had accompanied you," the man said at last, a note of discomfort creeping into his voice. "After all, it's been a long time since I've had to socialise… and you know these sorts of encounters have never been my forte."
The boy shook his head gently, wrapped in the serenity that seemed so natural to him.
"It is true that Vinda has more experience in these situations," he admitted evenly. "But in this particular case, her presence could prove counterproductive. If my instincts are correct, the Muggles we're about to meet despise everything related to magic."
He paused, choosing his next words carefully.
"And Vinda…"
The man raised an eyebrow.
"…would hardly be the ideal person for such an occasion."
The man raised his other eyebrow, amused by the understatement.
"That is putting it mildly."
"It is," the boy conceded after a brief pause. "Her personality, while charming, also has a tendency to be… troublesome."
Silence fell between them once more.
Only the sound of their footsteps against the polished pavement accompanied their progress.
It was the man who spoke again, his tone brusque, almost as though the question had been circling his mind for some time.
"Is it worth it?" he asked directly, without looking at the boy.
He continued after a moment.
"I mean, you've devoted more than a few resources to achieving your objective. Not to mention the time and attention you've invested. The money spent is hardly insignificant. Is it really worth it?"
The boy did not answer immediately.
His eyes remained fixed ahead, focused on the domestic horizon of Privet Drive.
Finally, in the same measured tone, he said, "I wonder that myself."
There was no commitment in his answer.
"But that's something we'll only know with time. After all, this is nothing more than an investment."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Besides, it's not as though we're short of funds."
The man exhaled through his nose, not so much in disapproval as resignation.
He knew that, so long as the situation posed no tangible danger, the decisions ultimately rested entirely in the boy's hands.
And that was a fact he did not always agree with.
But it was one he had accepted long ago.
They continued walking in silence, leaving behind a succession of houses indistinguishable from one another: symmetrical gardens, spotless driveways, carefully drawn curtains.
Eventually, they stopped in front of one of them.
It was just as unremarkable as all the others, save for the golden number affixed beside the entrance.
4.
The boy lifted his eyes towards the façade, and his expression became noticeably more restrained.
"Here we are."
…
Helena clapped both hands over her mouth, stifling the scream that had almost escaped her instinctively.
Harry, beside her, took a step back, his eyes wide as he stared at the tiny figure lying on his bed.
The creature was thin, with enormous, bat-like ears that stuck out from either side of its head and disproportionately large green eyes, as bright and round as tennis balls. They gazed at the twins with a mixture of excitement and reverence.
"A house-elf," Helena whispered in amazement, finally catching her breath.
"A what?" Harry asked without taking his eyes off the strange creature, which was staring right back at them.
Before Helena could answer, voices and artificial laughter drifted up from downstairs—a clear sign that the Dursleys were already well into their performance for the Masons.
Neither she nor Harry paid the slightest attention.
"Magical creatures that serve wizarding families," Helena explained quickly and quietly, recalling what Lucian had told her during their brief visit to the Hogwarts kitchens. "They do housework and help their families with all sorts of things."
The moment she finished speaking, the little creature sprang to its feet and performed such a deep bow that its long, pointed nose nearly brushed the carpet.
Harry and Helena exchanged a glance.
The creature was dressed in what appeared to be an old pillowcase, with ragged holes cut out for its arms and legs. It looked so peculiar and utterly forlorn that it was impossible to decide whether it inspired fear or pity.
"Er… hello," Harry said, unsure of how else to react.
"Harry Potter! Helena Potter!" the creature squeaked, its voice so high-pitched that it sounded almost like a whistle. "Dobby has dreamed of this moment for years! It is an honour! An incomparable honour!"
Helena stood frozen, surprised by the sheer emotion with which the elf pronounced their names.
"Thank you… I suppose," Harry said, cautiously making his way towards the desk chair. He sat down, trying not to appear rude.
"And you are…?" Helena began, adopting the kindest tone she could manage without moving from her spot.
"Dobby, Miss! Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf!"
"And what are you doing here, Dobby?" she asked, lowering her voice slightly. "It's not that we're unhappy to see you, but… this really isn't the best time to visit us."
Downstairs, the Dursleys' voices continued, now accompanied by the faint clinking of teaspoons against teacups. Aunt Petunia's exaggerated laughter carried clearly through the house.
Dobby lowered his head, looking ashamed.
"We're sorry, honestly," Harry added quickly, his voice hurried. "It's just that… this isn't really the best time to have a house-elf in the house."
"Dobby is sorry, sir," the creature replied in a trembling voice. "But Dobby has come to warn you about something… and it is not easy, no, no, it is not…" He wrung his hands anxiously. "Dobby wonders where to begin…"
"Sit down," Harry suggested kindly, gesturing towards the bed.
To Harry's and Helena's dismay, the house-elf burst into tears on the spot.
And not quiet, restrained tears, either.
It was a tremendous sobbing fit that seemed to make the windowpanes tremble.
"Si-sit down!" he wailed between hiccups. "Never, never in my life…!"
From downstairs, Helena thought she could hear muffled voices, strained laughter and the tinkling of teacups. She immediately lowered her voice.
"I'm sorry," Harry murmured nervously. "I didn't mean to offend you."
"Offend Dobby!" the elf cried, his expression a strange mixture of outrage and gratitude. "No wizard has ever asked Dobby to sit down… as though Dobby were an equal."
Harry urgently gestured for him to lower his voice, while doing his best not to appear rude.
Eventually, Dobby sank onto the edge of the bed, still hiccupping.
Helena watched him closely.
He looked like some sort of old, misshapen doll, stitched together from scraps and overflowing with emotion.
"Sounds like you haven't met many polite wizards," Harry said, attempting to break the ice.
Dobby vigorously shook his head.
Then, without warning, he sprang to his feet and began banging his forehead against the window.
"Dobby bad! Dobby bad!" he wailed.
"Dobby!" Helena cried in alarm. "Stop! Don't do that!"
She turned towards her brother with a frown.
"And you! Stop talking! You're only upsetting him more."
"Dobby had to punish himself, Miss," the elf panted, his eyes crossing slightly from the impact. "Dobby was almost speaking badly of his family…"
"I see," Helena said, doing her best to keep her voice calm. "But tell me, do they know you're here?"
Dobby shuddered from head to toe.
"No, Miss. No, no, no… If they knew Dobby had come to see Harry Potter and Miss Helena…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Dobby would have to punish himself severely. Slam his ears in the oven door, perhaps."
"But…" Harry interrupted, perplexed. "Wouldn't they notice if you did that?"
"Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always punishing himself for something, sir. They leave it to Dobby. Sometimes, they merely remind Dobby that he ought to inflict some additional punishment upon himself."
"But… why don't you leave them?" Harry asked incredulously. "Why don't you run away?"
"They can't," Helena interjected quietly. "House-elves can only be freed by their families. If their masters don't want to give them their freedom, there's nothing they can do."
"The young Miss is very well informed!" Dobby exclaimed reverently. "Dobby's family will never free him… Dobby will serve them until the very last day of his life."
The two siblings stared at him in silence.
For a moment, all their complaints about the Dursleys seemed terribly insignificant.
"I thought we had it bad," Harry muttered. "What you're telling us makes the Dursleys seem… almost human. Isn't there anyone who can help you? Can I do something?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Harry knew he had made a mistake.
Dobby dissolved into even louder sobs of gratitude than before, dropping to his knees and pounding the floor with his bony fists.
"Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby!" he wailed. "Dobby already knew of Harry Potter's greatness, but not his kindness! Oh, what an honour! What happiness for Dobby!"
Harry, aware that he was blushing, lowered his gaze and mumbled,
"Whatever you've heard about me… it isn't true. I'm not even top of my class at Hogwarts. Helena has always been better than me."
"It's not as though that's anything remarkable," Helena quickly added, shaking her head. "I just get good marks. If Harry applied himself a little more, he'd be just as good as me… perhaps even better."
"The masters are humble and modest!" Dobby exclaimed adoringly.
His enormous, round eyes glittered with a mixture of respect and enthusiasm.
"They do not even speak of their triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"
"Voldemort?" the two siblings asked in unison.
Dobby recoiled as though they had thrown a dagger at him. He clapped his enormous ears over his head and whimpered.
"Do not say that name! Do not say that name!"
"Sorry!" Harry hurriedly said, somewhat embarrassed. "I know it makes a lot of people nervous… My friend Ron is the same…"
He stopped halfway through the sentence, suddenly remembering that he hadn't heard a word from Ron all summer.
An uncomfortable silence crept into his voice.
Dobby leaned towards him, his eyes so wide they seemed capable of swallowing the entire room.
"Dobby has heard," he said breathlessly, "that Harry Potter had a second encounter with the Dark Lord… only a few weeks ago… and escaped with his life once again."
Harry nodded.
Helena, however, frowned, watching the elf closely.
"Oh, sir!" Dobby cried, covering his face with his hands and rubbing it with the edge of the old pillowcase he wore as a tunic. "Harry Potter is brave! And Helena Potter is brilliant! They have faced so many dangers…!"
His expression suddenly became grave.
"But Dobby has come to protect them. He has come to warn them—even if Dobby must punish himself severely afterwards—that the Potters must not return to Hogwarts this year."
A wave of silence swept through the bedroom.
From downstairs, they could still hear Aunt Petunia's forced laughter, the clinking of crockery, and Uncle Vernon's deep voice droning on about drills.
At that moment, Crookshanks, who had been dozing beside the window, stirred.
The large ginger cat stretched lazily before making his way towards the bed with his peculiar feline grace. He circled Dobby twice, sniffing him as though trying to decide whether he ought to scratch the creature or simply tolerate his presence.
Eventually, Crookshanks curled up at Helena's feet, purring softly.
Harry exchanged a bewildered look with his sister.
"But… we have to go back," he said, still perplexed. "Term starts on the first of September. It's the only thing we have to look forward to…"
He hesitated.
"You don't know what it's like living here. We don't belong in this place. We… we belong in the wizarding world. At Hogwarts."
"No, no, no!" Dobby squealed, shaking his head so violently that his ears flapped like flags. "The Potters must stay where they are! They must remain safe! They are too important, too valuable! We cannot lose them!"
"Lose us…?" Helena repeated incredulously. "Why? What's happening?"
Dobby lowered his voice to a trembling whisper. His thin shoulders visibly shook.
"There is a plot, Helena Potter… a terrible plot for dreadful things to happen at Hogwarts this year," he said solemnly. "Dobby has known for months. Dobby has heard things… terrible things…"
"What terrible things?" Harry asked immediately. "Who's behind it?"
Dobby made a strange, strangled noise, as though something had become lodged in his throat.
Then, without warning, he began frantically banging his head against the wall.
"Wait!"
Helena lunged forward, grabbing him by the shoulders and stopping him before he could hurt himself.
"It's all right. We understand that you can't tell us anything more. But… why warn us?"
Her voice had changed.
She no longer sounded irritated or merely inquisitive. There was genuine concern in it now, a sudden and unpleasant thought taking root in her mind.
"Wait…" she continued cautiously. "This has something to do with Vol—"
She stopped herself.
"With You-Know-Who, doesn't it?"
She quickly added, "You don't have to say anything. Just nod or shake your head."
She had noticed Dobby leaning dangerously close to the wall again.
Slowly, with a stiffness that seemed born of fear, the elf shook his head.
"No… it is not He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Miss," he whispered.
The siblings exchanged a confused glance, trying to make sense of the wild expression in the elf's bulging eyes.
He was clearly trying to give them a clue, but it was like staring at a picture with no context.
"He doesn't have a secret brother, does he?" Harry ventured.
Dobby shook his head vigorously, his eyes somehow opening even wider.
"Well… then I don't know who else could have the power to cause trouble at Hogwarts," Harry continued. "I mean, there's Dumbledore… You know who Dumbledore is, don't you?"
Dobby inclined his head reverently.
"Albus Dumbledore is the greatest Headmaster Hogwarts has ever had, sir. Dobby knows this. Dobby has heard that Dumbledore's powers rivalled those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, sir"—the elf's voice dropped to an urgent whisper—"there are powers Dumbledore does not use… powers no decent wizard—"
Before they could stop him, Dobby launched himself off the bed, grabbed the desk lamp, and began beating himself over the head with it. He let out a series of high-pitched squeaks each time the metal struck his skull.
"Dobby!" Helena cried, horrified. "Stop, please!"
Downstairs, a sudden silence fell like a stone.
Two seconds later, the twins heard Uncle Vernon's chair scrape back, followed by the heavy thud of his footsteps in the hallway.
"Dudley must have left his television on again, that forgetful little fool!" he grumbled as he climbed the stairs.
"Quick! In the wardrobe!" Helena hissed.
She shoved Dobby inside the built-in wardrobe, slammed the door shut, and threw herself onto the bed just as the doorknob began to turn.
"What the hell are you two doing?" Uncle Vernon snapped through clenched teeth, peering between them with small, furious eyes. "You've just ruined the punchline to my best joke about Japanese golfers! One more sound and you'll wish you'd never been born!"
He stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Helena remained perfectly still, her heart pounding against her ribs. Harry silently crept towards the wardrobe and cautiously opened the door.
Dobby emerged hunched over, still sobbing, his enormous ears drooping miserably.
"See what it's like living here?" Harry whispered, his voice carrying more bitterness than anger. "See why we have to go back to Hogwarts? It's the only place where we feel like we belong… where we have friends."
"Friends who don't even write to the Potters?" Dobby asked slyly, blinking with exaggerated innocence.
Helena narrowed her eyes. Somewhere in the house, the doorbell rang, but she barely registered it. There was something far more important demanding her attention.
"How do you know we haven't received any letters?" she asked slowly.
Dobby began shifting nervously from one foot to the other.
"The Potters must not be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it… for their own good…"
"You've been stopping our letters?" Harry guessed, a mixture of fury and disbelief in his voice.
"Dobby has them here, sir," the elf admitted.
With a quick movement, he pulled a thick bundle of envelopes from inside the pillowcase he was wearing.
Helena recognised them at once.
Cassandra's elegant handwriting. Lucian's straight, meticulous script. And even an envelope bearing Hagrid's unmistakable scrawl.
Dobby looked at them anxiously.
"Dobby only wanted to protect them… Dobby thought that if they believed their friends had forgotten them… perhaps they would not want to return to Hogwarts."
Helena felt a ringing begin in her ears.
But Harry moved first.
He lunged towards Dobby, reaching for the letters, but the elf sprang nimbly backwards.
"Harry Potter can have them, sir, if he promises not to return to Hogwarts! And Miss Helena too! Ah, it is too dangerous! Please say it—that you will not go back!"
"No!" Harry exploded. "Give us our letters!"
"Then Dobby has no choice…" the elf said sadly.
Before they could react, Dobby darted towards the door, yanked it open, and raced down the stairs.
With dry throats and their stomachs in knots, the twins followed, doing their best not to make a sound.
Harry leapt down the last few steps, landing lightly on the hallway carpet, while Helena slid down the banister, her heart hammering in her chest.
The silence throughout the house was deceptive.
Muffled voices drifted from the dining room: Uncle Vernon's pompous tone, Aunt Petunia's forced little laughs, and, in the background, the refined murmur of a guest.
Helena held her breath.
They could not afford to be discovered.
While Harry rushed towards the kitchen, she veered towards the utility room, searching for Dobby—or any sign of him.
But the little elf seemed to have vanished completely.
There was not the slightest trace of his presence.
Then chaos erupted.
A sharp crash, like crockery smashing against the floor, shattered the silence.
Helena froze instantly, her back pressed against the wall, her eyes widening.
From the kitchen came Aunt Petunia's shrill screams, a whispered curse from Uncle Vernon, and the outraged voice she assumed belonged to Mrs Mason.
The next thing Helena saw was a thin woman running down the hallway towards the front door, shouting something about mad people.
A disgruntled-looking man followed close behind.
Summoning what little courage she had left, Helena made her way towards the kitchen door.
The scene she found was absurd, chaotic, and completely unexpected.
Harry was covered from head to toe in the remains of Aunt Petunia's pudding, looking like some sort of sugar-coated ghost.
Cream dripped from his hair, crystallised violets clung to his eyebrows, and his expression was a mixture of embarrassment and resignation.
And standing opposite him, leaning casually against the kitchen counter with an almost bewildering ease, was Lucian.
The boy wore an amused smile, his arms folded across his chest, as though the scene before him were nothing more than an entertaining piece of theatre.
"Helena," he said, raising an eyebrow when he noticed her standing in the doorway. "About time. A little more delay on your part and I would have had to come upstairs and find you myself."
Helena had no idea whether to laugh, scream, or demand an explanation.
Her gaze flickered between her brother, the disaster that had overtaken the kitchen, and Lucian's perfectly composed face.
She could only hope this was some strange dream.
It had to be.
Otherwise, the consequences were going to be far too great.
…
Dear Mr and Mrs Potter,
We have been informed that, at nine minutes past nine this evening, a Levitation Charm was performed at your place of residence. As you are well aware, underage wizards are strictly forbidden from performing magic outside school premises. Repeated violations of this regulation may result in expulsion from the school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Article Three).
We would also like to remind you that any use of magic that may be witnessed by members of the non-magical community constitutes a serious breach of the Statute of Secrecy (Section Thirteen of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy).
We wish you a pleasant holiday.
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic
"At least Uncle Vernon didn't get to read the letter," Harry remarked, trying to force a hint of optimism into his voice. "If he had, he'd know we've been lying to him all summer."
"At least they didn't expel us," Helena added bitterly. "Though it's still ridiculous. It wasn't even us!"
Lucian stood leaning casually against the trunk of a nearby tree, watching them with his arms folded across his chest. His expression was difficult to read.
"You shouldn't worry so much," he said indifferently. "They're only following procedure, that's all. The Ministry isn't going to expel the Potters on a whim. Not while they still care about public opinion."
The twins looked at him in confusion.
Lucian gave a quiet sigh.
"What I mean is," he continued, "you're too valuable to them, at least for now. As long as you don't do anything that directly goes against the Ministry, I doubt they'll take any real action against you."
"Valuable in what way?" Helena asked, narrowing her eyes.
Lucian did not answer immediately. His gaze dropped to the ground, as though he were carefully considering his next words.
"For everything you represent," he finally said, his voice quiet but firm. "Whether you like it or not, you were responsible for Voldemort's downfall. The light that marked the end of an age of darkness. You've become symbols…"
He paused.
"And symbols, Helena, Harry, can be valuable tools… or very dangerous threats."
A brief silence followed before he added:
"As long as you don't challenge the order the Ministry is so fond of maintaining, you'll continue to be revered. Perhaps even protected… at least on the surface."
Harry frowned, frustration evident in his expression.
"But we were only babies when Voldemort fell. I don't even remember what happened. How could a baby have defeated him?" he asked, exasperation mixing with a question that had followed him ever since last year.
Lucian looked at him without the slightest hint of condescension.
"I don't know," he admitted, with a frankness he rarely displayed. "Neither do they."
He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow slightly.
"But they don't care. All they're interested in is a story they can tell. And unfortunately for you two… that story is you."
A heavy silence settled over the three of them, broken only by the whisper of leaves stirred by the wind.
The park was empty, as though the world itself knew better than to interrupt the moment.
For a while, Helena lowered her gaze to her hands, lost in thought. Harry stared towards the horizon, more confused than ever.
Lucian was the first to break the silence, his tone regaining some of its usual lightness.
"Now, why don't you tell me exactly what happened with that house-elf you've been talking about?" he asked, unable to completely conceal his curiosity, though a spark of caution still lingered in his eyes.
And so Helena told him what had happened.
If there was one thing she had learned during the time she'd spent around Lucian, it was that, somehow, he always seemed to have an answer to her questions.
She hoped this time would be no different.
"He really is a rather unusual house-elf," Lucian remarked. "Coming all the way here to warn you of some danger, disobeying the rules of his own family in the process… There's no doubt he's a peculiar house-elf."
"Then do you think what he said is true?" Helena asked.
"Well, I think it wouldn't hurt to remain open to the possibility. Even if it's a rather unlikely one, you'd be better off keeping your eyes—and your minds—a little more open."
As he said this, Lucian turned his gaze towards Harry, prompting Helena to look at her brother as well.
As his sister, Helena knew that if there was any sort of trouble to be found, Harry would very likely end up getting involved.
It had always been that way.
And, honestly, she didn't believe that was going to change with time.
"What?" Harry asked defensively. "It's not as though I go looking for trouble."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"Besides, what are you doing here?"
He had changed the subject so quickly that Helena could not help suspecting Harry was trying to steer the conversation elsewhere before it turned against him.
And it had worked perfectly.
Her attention shifted towards Lucian.
That was to say, while she was grateful that he had arrived at exactly the right moment, she was also curious to know what had brought him all the way there.
"Well, Cassandra was worried because she never received a reply to any of the letters she sent you. I also took the opportunity to close a deal concerning your uncle," Lucian admitted calmly.
"A deal?" Harry asked, genuinely surprised.
"With our uncle?" Helena added.
"Yes. Simply put, my family has become the new owner of the factory where he works."
Lucian accompanied his words with the faintest smile.
"Wait… what?" was all Helena managed to say.
"You heard me," Lucian replied calmly.
"Your family bought our uncle's factory?" Harry asked, this time in disbelief.
"Technically speaking, it wasn't your uncle's. Although he is the factory manager, he is still an employee."
Lucian explained it with such simplicity that, for a moment, Helena felt as though she were missing something.
She understood every word he had said perfectly.
And yet, for some strange reason, she simply couldn't process it.
Why would his family buy a Muggle factory?
And, more importantly, why that particular factory—the very one where her uncle worked?
The question occupied her mind, but she refused to voice it.
"I doubt our uncle is going to be very happy about that," Harry muttered.
"Perhaps. He didn't seem like a particularly pleasant person," Lucian replied, a faint edge of coldness creeping into his voice.
It was a simple observation. Anyone could have reached the same conclusion after dealing with her uncle.
And yet, coming from Lucian, Helena couldn't help feeling uneasy.
It was as though those few words had somehow left her completely exposed.
And she disliked the feeling intensely.
"That's why Anton stayed behind," Lucian continued, seemingly unaware of her thoughts. "Though he may not look it, he can be quite persuasive."
Helena looked up.
"Anton?"
"One of my family's trusted men."
"And what exactly is he supposed to do?" Harry asked.
"Talk to your uncle."
"Talk?"
Lucian nodded.
"That's one way of putting it."
Harry did not look entirely convinced.
Helena, however, felt a small shiver run down her spine.
The thought of Anton discovering something kept her on edge.
The Dursleys' aversion to magic was hardly something they had gone out of their way to hide. And what if he asked why Lucian's letters had never received a reply?
Worse still, what if he started asking questions about their life in that house?
Helena discreetly clenched her hands in her lap.
"Helena?"
Lucian's voice pulled her out of her thoughts.
She raised her head a little too quickly.
"Yes?"
Lucian was watching her with mild curiosity.
For a moment, Helena felt her heart begin to race again.
But Lucian simply spoke.
"Don't worry," he said matter-of-factly. "Nothing you're thinking about is going to happen. We are civilised people, after all."
Helena stared at him for several seconds.
With those simple words, the oppressive weight that had settled in her chest began to ease.
The unease, however, remained.
She had often wondered whether Lucian had noticed that she didn't have a good relationship with her family. But at least those words reminded her of something. She could trust him.