By the time Harry and Void turned nine, the attic at Number Four Privet Drive had become more than a punishment. It was their room, their prison, their sanctuary — all at once.
The single cracked window let in little air and even less light. In summer, heat pressed down like a smothering blanket; in winter, drafts curled through the rafters. Meals were uneven, sometimes slipped up by Petunia, sometimes withheld by Vernon in fits of righteous fury. Still, the boys survived. They endured. Together.
Shadow — the small black serpent with faint streaks of crimson and violet streaks down his scales — remained coiled faithfully around Void's wrist. To Vernon and Dudley, he did not exist. To Harry, he was both marvel and mystery. To Void, he was family.
Daily Life
They still went to school, of course. Vernon would never risk neighbors whispering about truancy; the Dursleys prized appearances above all else. So, each morning, Harry and Void trudged down the neat drive in ill-fitting hand-me-downs, carrying Dudley's cast-off schoolbags patched with tape. Dudley strutted ahead, boasting about video games and pudding, while his gang of friends laughed too loud at his every word.
At school, Harry faded into the background. He learned quickly that teachers rarely listened when he spoke, that lost homework was always his fault, that Dudley's mischief somehow became his burden. Void was different. He was quiet, watchful, too steady for his age. Teachers often forgot him entirely, their eyes sliding away as though he were simply another shadow in the room. Yet whenever Dudley cornered Harry, Void appeared, silent and immovable, until the bullies backed off.
At home, the boys bore the brunt of every chore. The dishes, the vacuuming, the endless polishing of Vernon's car until its hood gleamed like a mirror — all fell to them. Dudley complained if asked to lift a finger. Vernon roared if anything was less than perfect.
Petunia stood somewhere in between. When Vernon and Dudley were home, she kept her lips pressed in a thin, pale line. She barked orders in sharp tones, always watching out of the corner of her eye to see if Vernon approved. If the boys faltered, she didn't intervene. Fear chained her tongue.
But when Vernon and Dudley were away — Vernon at work, Dudley off to a friend's house — her mask slipped.
"Not like that," she muttered once, snatching the iron from Harry's small hand before he burned his sleeve. She pressed the shirt with swift, efficient motions. "Smooth, not jerky. You'll ruin the fabric otherwise."
Harry stared at her, wide-eyed, but said nothing.
"Here," she said another time, placing a plate down with more food than usual. Proper food. Sausages, eggs, even a slice of toast each. "Eat quickly. And whatever's left, wrap it in napkins. Hide it under the loose board by your mattress. Vernon never goes up there."
Void met her eyes, calm and unblinking, and for a moment Petunia faltered. His gaze was too much like Amara's — her elder sister, sharp-eyed and protective, the one who had always stood between Petunia and the cruelties of the world. Petunia swallowed hard and turned away before she betrayed herself further.
So life became a rhythm. School by day, chores by evening, the attic by night. Punishments were harsh — often no food, sometimes days locked in the attic. But they were not as harsh as they might have been, for Petunia slipped them crusts, tins, and sometimes even fruit when Vernon wasn't looking. The attic became lined with tiny hidden caches — under floorboards, behind loose planks, inside an old trunk. Enough to survive the nights Vernon decided they "deserved to go hungry."
It was not kindness in the open. It was not rebellion. But it was something.
The Dinner Guest
One summer evening, the routine cracked.
Vernon came home red-faced and sweating, waving his tie as though it were a flag. "Important guest tonight," he barked. "A manager. Someone who needs to see perfection in this house. Do you hear me?"
Harry and Void froze in the doorway.
"Upstairs. Now." Vernon's finger jabbed toward the attic ladder. "Not a word. Not a sound. If either of you makes so much as a squeak, you'll wish you'd never been born."
Harry nodded quickly, fear clenching his stomach. Void said nothing, his face unreadable as always. They climbed. The hatch shut. The lock clicked like final judgment.
The attic swallowed them again.
Shadow stirred restlessly, tongue flicking the floorboards as though tasting the tension below.
"Why does he hate us so much?" Harry whispered at last, knees hugged to his chest.
Void stroked the serpent's scales with one finger, gaze fixed on the cracks in the wood. "Because he's afraid," he murmured.
"Afraid… of us?"
"Afraid of what we carry."
Harry frowned but didn't press further. The words sat heavy, more frightening than any of Vernon's punishments.
Downstairs, the table gleamed. Petunia's best china clinked. Dudley was scrubbed and stuffed into a collared shirt. Vernon beamed as he poured wine for Mr. Carter, a senior manager whose approval might mean promotion.
The meal went smoothly at first. Roast beef, gravy, too-sweet pudding. Vernon laughed too loud at his own jokes, Petunia fussed, Dudley boasted.
Then Carter's eyes wandered. They landed on the mantel, where a photograph sat slightly askew. In it, Dudley grinned between his parents — and beside them, stiff and thin, stood Harry and Void.
"You've a lovely home," Carter said warmly. "And your son, Dudley, is quite the strong lad. But tell me—" his gaze lingered on the photograph—"do you have other children?"
The air froze.
Petunia's smile wavered. Dudley crammed pudding into his mouth.
Vernon's face went purple. He forced a booming laugh. "Ah—yes, two nephews. Staying with us a time. But they're poorly tonight. Sickly boys. Best kept away — wouldn't want to trouble our guest with coughs, eh?"
Carter nodded politely, but something in his eyes sharpened. The warmth drained from the room. He didn't ask again, but Petunia felt his attention prickle at her back like knives.
When he left, Vernon clapped him too hard on the back, laughter loud and desperate. Carter smiled, but his eyes drifted once more toward the staircase before he stepped into the night.
Suspicion
In the attic, Harry and Void pressed their ears to the floorboards, catching fragments of conversation below.
"They know," Harry whispered, panic rising.
"They suspect," Void corrected softly. "But to them, we are ghosts. Vernon will make sure of it."
Harry hugged his knees tighter. "Then why does it feel like it's getting worse?"
"Because ghosts," Void murmured, "always leave cold air behind them. And some people notice."
Shadow hissed faintly, as though to agree.
Carter drove home with Vernon's laughter echoing in his ears. On the surface, the evening had been normal: dinner, small talk, pudding. But the photograph haunted him. The two children, thin and stiff, staring out from the corner.
If they were sick, why hide them? Why not mention them sooner? And why had Petunia looked so strained when he asked?
By morning, suspicion had taken root.
Carter shut his office blinds and lifted the phone. His voice was careful, low, when he spoke.
"Sir… I may be overstepping, but something at Vernon Dursley's house seemed wrong. He mentioned nephews. I never saw them. Only photographs. And the way he spoke — hurried, defensive — it didn't sit right."
"Children are the soul of tomorrow," Augustus Fairchild replied. His voice was warm, but iron lay beneath it. "Keep watch. Discreetly. If something is wrong in that household, I want to know."
The line clicked dead.
Carter sat back, unsettled. He didn't know what secrets the Dursleys were hiding. But if Augustus Fairchild was interested, then it was no small matter.
Ghosts in the Attic
That night, Harry leaned against Void's shoulder in the dark. "Do you think anyone will ever know? About us?"
Void's gaze was calm, unreadable. Shadow coiled tighter, warmth seeping through his sleeve.
"They will," Void said at last. His voice carried no fear, only certainty. "One way or another."
The house creaked softly. Dust drifted down from the rafters.
And Number Four held its breath — not just with secrets, but with the knowledge that the world, at last, had begun to look.