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Chapter 7 - The Man Who Noticed

The summer sun fell lazily across Little Whinging, gilding the rows of neat houses with a glow that made everything look safe, ordinary, respectable. Number Four, Privet Drive, looked no different from the rest—front garden trimmed, car polished until it gleamed, curtains drawn at the proper hours. To a passerby, the Dursleys were the very picture of a respectable family.

But inside, life was different.

School and Chores

Each weekday began the same. Dudley was fussed over, his tie straightened, his packed lunch stuffed with sweets. Harry and Void walked behind him in Dudley's old uniforms, sleeves too short, shoes pinching their toes. Teachers rarely saw them beyond the edge of their vision. Dudley's complaints became Harry's punishments; Void's silence kept him invisible.

Still, the boys worked hard. Harry tried with all his might to please, to be unnoticed yet good enough not to be punished. Void worked with a different steadiness, his homework always neat, his gaze always watchful. He seemed older than the rest, as though schoolwork were nothing more than one more task to endure.

At home, chores began as soon as they set down their schoolbags. Dishes clattered under Harry's small hands; Void scrubbed Dudley's muddy shoes until they shone. They vacuumed every carpet, polished every surface, clipped every hedge. Dudley sulked on the sofa, demanding drinks and sweets, while Vernon loomed like a warden, barking about "standards" and "proper appearances."

To Vernon, every chore was proof that his household was perfect, his children disciplined, his family well-managed. He did not see the bruises, the hunger, the shadows under Harry's eyes. He saw only his reputation reflected back to him in the shine of his car, the gleam of his windows, the politeness of his dinner guests.

And he intended to keep it that way.

Petunia's Quiet Lessons

When Vernon and Dudley were away, Petunia's mask loosened. Not gone—never gone—but softened.

She found Void scrubbing the kitchen floor with a brush until his knuckles bled. "Not like that," she snapped. She took the brush, showing him how to angle it so the soap worked with the grain, not against it. "You'll wear the bristles out otherwise. Use small circles. Efficient."

Void copied her exactly, his movements steady, precise. Petunia said nothing more, but her lips pressed thin when she noticed the blood on his knuckles. That evening, she left a clean cloth and a dab of salve by the sink.

And always, there was food. Never enough to be obvious, never where Vernon could see. A bit of ham wrapped in paper, a sandwich tucked into Harry's pocket, apples sliced thin and left "by accident" on the counter. "Eat it quick," she'd hiss. "And if there's more, hide it."

Together, the boys had built secret caches in the attic: loose floorboards lifted with care, an old trunk in the corner, a cracked beam hollowed just enough to tuck bread or cheese. When Vernon stormed and declared, "No food for a week!" they did not starve.

Petunia never admitted what she was doing. She never looked them in the eye when she handed over the food. But the guilt showed in her trembling hands, in the way her gaze lingered too long on Void's face—so like her sister Amara's.

It was not love, not openly. It was survival. And survival, Petunia had learned, was the closest thing to kindness she dared.

The Second Dinner

It was late June when Vernon strutted into the kitchen, waving an envelope.

"Another dinner!" he boomed. "Carter's invited himself back. Wants to discuss opportunities. Promotion's as good as mine."

Harry's stomach tightened. Void's gaze flicked toward the letter, unreadable. Petunia only nodded, though the teacup in her hand trembled faintly.

On the night itself, the house gleamed as though scrubbed for royalty. Petunia's roast lamb sat steaming at the center of the table. Dudley sulked in a too-tight suit, demanding pudding before the first course. Vernon's laugh rattled the windows.

Carter arrived with his usual warm smile, shaking Vernon's hand firmly before stepping inside. But his eyes missed nothing. He noted the stiff way Petunia stood, the too-perfect polish on the silver, the nervous glances at the stairs.

The meal began as before: small talk, wine, Dudley's boasting. But Carter had not come for small talk.

"You know," he said halfway through the main course, his tone casual but deliberate, "our director, Mr. Fairchild, was very pleased when I mentioned your nephews. He said it spoke well of your family's sense of duty. Rare, these days."

The fork nearly slipped from Vernon's hand. He caught it with a laugh that was too sharp, too loud. "Ah—yes, duty, of course. Nothing more than what's expected, eh? Ha!"

Carter sipped his wine, eyes calm, watchful. "I'd very much like to meet them, if only to say hello. Faces to the names, you know. Always easier to remember."

The silence that followed was thick. Dudley shoveled pudding into his mouth, oblivious. Petunia's napkin twisted in her hands.

"They're resting upstairs," Vernon said quickly. His voice was too tight. "Sickly boys. Weak constitutions. Not fit for company."

Carter nodded, still smiling. But the smile did not reach his eyes. "A shame," he said softly. "Perhaps another time."

The conversation limped on. Vernon laughed too hard, Petunia fussed, Dudley complained of hunger. Carter stayed polite, but his gaze lingered on Vernon, weighing every word, every twitch.

When the night ended, Vernon nearly shoved his guest out the door with promises of golf and cigars. Carter smiled, polite as always, but his eyes lingered once more on the dark staircase before he stepped into the night.

Carter's Suspicion

In his office the next morning, Carter shut the blinds and picked up the phone.

"Sir," he said carefully when Augustus Fairchild's voice answered. "I pressed Dursley last night. He insists the boys are too sick to be seen. His wife said nothing. But the atmosphere—it felt like a lie. A heavy one."

Fairchild hummed softly. "You've confirmed my suspicion. Dursley is a man who thrives on appearances. Pride is his armor. So we shall use that armor against him."

"Sir?"

"Leave it to me," Fairchild said smoothly. "If he wants the world to believe him a model guardian, then the world shall see him as one. Whether he likes it or not."

The Trap Letter

Two days later, a cream-colored envelope arrived at Vernon's desk. The seal of the Fairchild Foundation gleamed on its flap.

To Mr. Vernon Dursley,

It has come to my attention, through my trusted colleague Mr. Carter, that you have opened your home to your two young nephews. In a world where too many turn away from responsibility, your actions stand as a shining example of family duty and compassion.

As founder of the Fairchild Foundation, I wish to commend you publicly. Acts like yours remind us all that children are the soul of tomorrow.

With respect, Augustus Fairchild

Vernon's face drained of color. His mustache twitched violently. His colleagues leaned over their partitions, curious.

"What's that, Dursley?"

"Nothing," Vernon barked, shoving the letter into his briefcase. "Nothing at all!" He forced a booming laugh, but sweat slicked his palms.

Vernon's Fury

That evening, the storm broke.

"They've put me in a corner!" Vernon roared, slamming his briefcase onto the table. "Everyone at the office thinks I'm a saint now! If anyone ever finds out how those boys really live—if anyone suspects—my reputation will be ruined!"

His face was purple, sweat dripping down his brow. "Do you understand what this means? I'll be finished. All of it—years of hard work, building my place, my standing—and those two will tear it down with their freakishness!"

Petunia stood stiff, hands wringing, lips white. Dudley whined for pudding.

Vernon jabbed a trembling finger toward the ceiling. "They'll stay quiet. They'll stay hidden. Not because I'm ashamed of them—but because no one will ever see me as less than perfect! I will not be made a fool of in front of Carter, in front of Fairchild, in front of anyone!"

Up in the attic, Harry and Void pressed close to the floorboards. Harry's heart raced. Void's face remained calm, Shadow coiled tight around his wrist.

"He's afraid of us," Harry whispered.

"No," Void said softly. "He's afraid of being seen."

Harry frowned. "Seen how?"

"As he really is," Void murmured.

The house creaked around them. Outside, clouds gathered thick and low.

For the first time, Harry felt it too—the sense that the world was looking. That the careful mask Vernon wore was cracking. And when it broke, all of them would be exposed.

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