Vernon Dursley prided himself on being a man of control. His house was spotless, his lawn immaculate, his family well-presented. His world ran on rules: quarterly targets, trimmed hedges, shirts pressed flat enough to slice butter. And above all, no one—no one—told Vernon how to run his household.
Which was why the sight of a tall, silver-bearded man waiting beside his company car in Grunnings' lamplit car park made him splutter. The office block behind him hummed with after-hours fluorescents; the asphalt still held the day's heat. The man stood as if the world had arranged itself to accommodate him.
"Good evening, Mr. Dursley," the stranger said pleasantly. Half-moon spectacles caught the orange glare of the streetlamp. His voice carried the calm assurance of someone used to obedience. "Might I borrow a moment of your time?"
Vernon clicked the locks on his Ford with a jab of his thumb and puffed himself up, mustache bristling. "Who are you, then? Some charity man? If you're here about donations, you can turn right round—"
The man inclined his head. "Forgive me. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Vernon blinked. His mouth opened, then snapped shut. "What rubbish is this?"
Dumbledore's smile was faint, patient—an adult indulging a stubborn child. "In terms you might understand: Chief Warlock is not unlike your Lord Chief Justice. Supreme Mugwump approximates the Secretary-General of your United Nations. And Headmaster of Hogwarts…" His eyes glimmered. "That is akin to leading your most prestigious private school—though with rather greater… challenges."
Vernon scoffed—until the nearest lamplight bent. It didn't flicker; it obeyed. Gold bled from the bulb like liquid and spilled into the air, coalescing into slow-spinning sparks. They drifted down and sank into the seams of the tarmac. A heartbeat later, lilies pushed up through the cracks—tall, white, impossible.
Vernon's face went from red to a dangerous purple. He lurched back against the car door. The lilies smelled faintly of cold water and funerals.
"I am a wizard, Mr. Dursley," Dumbledore said softly, and the sparks folded themselves neatly back into the night. "And you—whether you care for it or not—are guardian to two children who belong to my world as much as yours."
From his cloak he produced a small wooden box, old polish deepening its grain. Brass hinges winked. He held it out with quiet gravity.
"Something to help with the dark-haired boy. Void."
Vernon's lip curled. "Menace, he is. Stares at me like he knows something. And you expect me to take this? I'll not be ordered—"
"You have already seen you cannot break him with chores or cupboards," Dumbledore said, silk over steel. "These will erode what you cannot touch. He will be docile. Easier. The other boy will not cling to him so strongly. And if the Fairchild Foundation pries too closely…" His smile sharpened without warmth. "I will handle them."
Silence tightened. The car park buzzed with a far-off security light. Vernon's thick fingers twitched. He snatched the box at last and flipped the lid.
Inside, three phials nestled in felt: one chalky white like skimmed milk, one clouded green, one black as ink. Cold glass clicked faintly against his ring.
"What do I do?" he muttered.
"One glass a day," Dumbledore replied. "Never too much, never too little. He will resist, but you are persuasive. Use the other boy as leverage, if you must."
Vernon grunted. "I'll see the brat drinks it."
Dumbledore inclined his head as though sealing a pact. "I knew I could rely on you, Mr. Dursley. After all, what is family, if not obedience?"
He turned and walked away. The lilies withered as he passed, sinking into the cracks as though they had never been.
—
That night, Vernon poured the first draught into a thick tumbler—one of the good ones Petunia kept for guests. The liquid filmed the glass as it settled; when he tilted it, it clung a second too long before sliding down. Petunia laid out cutlets and over-boiled peas with hands that wouldn't quite stop shaking.
She said nothing. She had learned the price of saying something.
But memory stirred anyway. Amara's voice, soft and fierce, two girls whispering under blankets: Some potions heal, Pet. Others bind, weaken, or break. You can tell by the brewer's hand—and the heart behind it.
Vernon set the glass in front of Void with the blunt thud of a verdict. "Drink."
Void's fingers hovered over the rim. His eyes—those steady, unreadable eyes—flicked to Harry. Vernon's hand dropped onto Harry's shoulder and squeezed, hard enough to make the boy gasp.
Void lifted the glass and drank. The smell hit Petunia a beat later: bitter, metallic, a chemical tang that didn't belong in a kitchen. He didn't cough. He didn't flinch. He only blinked once, slow, as though filing the pain away.
Harry stared at the tabletop, knuckles white around his fork.
Vernon ate loudly, satisfied. "See? Easy," he said, to no one in particular.
After the washing-up, after the news droned and the armchair swallowed Vernon whole, Petunia crept back down. The tumbler sat in the drying rack, clean but not clean. She lifted it to her nose. The wrongness lingered: sharp, iron, the ghost of something that took.
She scrubbed it again anyway—soap, scalding water, a cloth worked until her fingers burned. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the empty sink, and hated how small it sounded.
Upstairs, the house's bones creaked in the summer heat. She wrapped sandwiches in napkins—ham, a thin smear of mustard, nothing that would smell—and climbed to the attic on quiet feet.
Void and Harry waited in the dim, knees drawn up, a torch turned toward the floorboards to keep the light from the crack under the door. Petunia pressed the parcels into their hands.
"Hide them," she breathed. "Under the boards. For when he locks you away."
Harry looked up at her then, eyes too old. Void held her gaze for a second longer than was safe and inclined his head once—as if she were a conspirator, not a gaoler who had chosen silence too many times.
On the landing, she paused, one hand on the banister. Downstairs, Vernon snored. The house hummed its complacent hum. In Petunia's chest, something pressed against its bars and rattled them.
Her silence still held.
But it trembled, very close to breaking.