The chandeliers blazed like stars above the grand hall, their golden fire spilling over polished marble and velvet-draped tables. Voices rose in warm laughter, glasses clinked in practiced rhythm, and the soft shuffle of musicians tuning filled the air like an overture.
At the center of it all, a stage gleamed beneath the crest of the Fairchild Foundation for Children.
The emblem caught every glimmer of light — a deep blue shield, dignified but simple. In its center rested a golden open book, the promise of learning, with a pair of silver hands beneath it — one large, one small — to show guidance and protection. Above the book shone a single golden star, a beacon of hope, framed by laurel branches of green and gold. At the base stretched an ivory banner, the foundation's name inked in graceful script.
It spoke of safety. Of growth. Of children cherished.
How ironic, Void thought as he stood in the shadow of it.
The Dursleys on Display
Vernon Dursley looked as though his collar had been sewn from iron. His tie was too tight, his face flushed scarlet beneath the heat of chandeliers and the sharper heat of attention. Every laugh he forced, every handshake, trembled with strain.
Beside him, Petunia's smile froze like porcelain. Her grip on Dudley's hand was white-knuckled, as though her son were a trophy she dared not drop. Dudley waddled forward in his tuxedo, puffed with importance, greedily eyeing trays of canapés floating past on silver platters.
And behind them, in ill-fitting suits, stood Harry and Void.
Harry tugged at his cuffs nervously, the cloth itchy against his skin. His fringe had been combed flat across his forehead to hide his scar. He tried to sink into the crowd, to vanish into the air itself.
Void did not shrink. Though his blazer hung too large on his shoulders, he wore it with strange dignity. His eyes, lowered as Petunia had instructed, nonetheless drew glances. There was something in his bearing — not arrogance, but steadiness. As though he were not a boy at all, but a shadow older than his years, standing quietly against the current of the room.
Beneath his sleeve, Shadow lay coiled in perfect stillness.
Augustus Fairchild
A murmur swept through the hall as Augustus Fairchild stepped onto the stage.
Tall and silver-haired, leaning lightly on a carved cane, he carried himself with the ease of a man who had seen much of the world. His eyes — sharp, kind, and piercing — swept over the gathering until the chatter stilled as if by spell.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice rich, steady, and undeniably warm, "we gather tonight not to celebrate wealth or power, but something far greater: duty. The duty of care. The guardianship of the future itself."
Polite applause rippled, sincere enough to echo. Vernon clapped too, his mustache twitching with the effort of feigned enthusiasm.
"And tonight," Augustus continued, "we honor a man whose household has taken on this duty. Mr. Vernon Dursley, who, with his wife Petunia, has not only raised a fine son, but also opened his home to two nephews in need."
Every head turned.
Harry's stomach dropped like a stone. His breath caught.
Void lowered his gaze further, calm as stone.
Augustus's smile broadened, his hand sweeping toward them. "Let us welcome not only Mr. Dursley, but also the children who give meaning to this honor — young Harry, and his cousin Void."
Applause swelled. Women in pearls bent their heads and smiled. Men nodded approvingly, murmuring words like responsibility and fine example.
Harry longed to sink through the polished floor.
Void stood straighter. His eyes flicked up just long enough to meet Augustus's gaze. For a heartbeat, the old man faltered — a flicker of something sharp crossing his expression — before returning to his genial smile.
Watchers Among the Guests
Unseen by most, two men watched more closely than the rest.
At the far end of the hall, Elphias Doge mingled with the grace of long practice, sipping wine and laughing easily among businessmen and foreign dignitaries. To Muggle eyes, he was a harmless attaché with an interest in British industry. In truth, he was Dumbledore's man. And though his eyes crinkled kindly as he smiled, they returned again and again to the dark-haired boy at Harry Potter's side.
Void troubled him. His bearing was unnatural for one so young. Doge's thoughts moved along familiar grooves: children who drew too much notice often became a danger — to themselves, to others, to the balance Dumbledore so carefully guarded.
Closer to the stage, Reginald Marchbanks observed with a sharper, more discreet eye. A quill rested in his pocket, his official guise that of a government education liaison. But his notes tonight were not about Muggle partnerships. He watched Harry flinch beneath polite words, saw the boy lean toward his cousin instinctively for safety. He watched Void's silence, his composure. Where Doge saw anomaly, Marchbanks saw survival.
And he wondered what kind of home forced children into such masks.
Exposed
Harry and Void stood against the side wall, wishing the eyes would turn elsewhere. But they did not.
"Such brave boys," cooed a woman draped in pearls, bending low. "It must be quite the change, living with your uncle."
Harry stammered, "Y-yes, ma'am," his cheeks burning.
Void inclined his head politely, eyes lowered. Still, the woman lingered, unsettled though she could not have said why.
Another man leaned down, smiling. "You lads must be proud of your uncle tonight. Fine example he's setting. Fine indeed."
Harry forced a weak smile. Void said nothing. Shadow stirred restlessly under his sleeve, tasting the air.
Then a curious boy about Dudley's age darted close. "Do you really live with them? Where do you sleep?" he asked bluntly.
Harry froze, throat locked.
Void stepped forward before he could answer. His voice was low but even. "We sleep where we're told."
The boy blinked, unsettled. He slunk back toward his parents. Adults nearby chuckled awkwardly, smoothing over the moment, but the weight of their stares lingered.
Harry's Thought
Harry pressed a hand to his pocket, where beneath folded napkins of Petunia's hidden food lay the photograph Vernon had smashed. The only picture he had of Void and himself.
It had been meant for the bin. Meant to erase them from the Dursley home. Instead, he clutched it now like proof. Proof that someone, somewhere, had seen them as more than shadows.
Tonight, the whole hall saw them. Not as they truly were — but seen nonetheless.
Harry wasn't sure if that made things better… or worse.
The Toast
Onstage, Augustus Fairchild raised his glass high.
"Let this be a reminder," he declared, "that our duty to children shapes not only families, but nations. Let us raise a toast — to the Dursleys, and to the children who are our tomorrow!"
Crystal glasses lifted. Applause thundered. Cameras flashed.
Vernon's smile stretched so hard it looked painful. Petunia's hands trembled against her glass. Dudley loudly demanded pudding.
And beneath the chandeliers, Harry and Void stood at the center of it all — exposed, applauded, and watched more closely than they would ever know.
Watchers in the Shadows
As the evening waned, Doge slipped out quietly, carrying his concerns back to Dumbledore.
Marchbanks left by another door, his thoughts already turning toward his cousin Griselda.
Neither noticed the other.
Inside, Harry clenched his fists, and Void's eyes tracked the doors through which the strangers had gone.
Watchers, Void thought. Always watching.
Shadow hissed faintly against his wrist, unseen by all but him.
And for the first time, Void wondered not whether the world would find them — but how soon.