The kitchen felt different that morning.
Not because the light was any brighter, or the tea any hotter, but because of who sat across from me. Vernon Dursley had taken the day off work — his tie still knotted but loosened, his shirt stretched across his chest like a drum. The man was a mountain of meat and bluster, his moustache quivering slightly as he studied me.
I studied him in return.
The same beady eyes, the same ruddy cheeks as before… and yet there was something new. A wariness, perhaps. A flicker of understanding that whatever boy he had beaten, starved, and locked beneath the stairs was not the boy now staring back at him.
I let the silence linger, sipping tea from my cup with perfect table manners — back straight, pinky angled just so, the way my tutors in another life had drilled into me. Vernon cleared his throat, an awkward rumble, before speaking.
"You're not him," he said at last, voice low. "Not the boy."
"No," I agreed softly, setting the cup down. "Not the boy you had killed last night."
His shoulders stiffened. Petunia, pale and hovering near the counter, flinched at the bluntness of my words. But I pressed on, relishing the way the man's moustache twitched like an angry cat's tail.
"I am not the same boy from last night." I told him. "And I have no intention of playing the whipping post for your frustrations ever again."
Vernon's thick fingers drummed against the tabletop. "Then who are you really? What are you?"
I smiled faintly. "That depends on how much truth you're ready to swallow."
He leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. His eyes narrowed, calculating. For all his brutish exterior, the man was not entirely stupid. "Petunia says you're… different. Told me how you act like an adult and know things you didn't before. I didn't believe it till I saw it."
I inclined my head. "She is correct."
"And those plans?" His eyes bored into mine. "What do they mean for us?"
At last, the heart of it. The protective father, the stubborn husband. For all his faults, Vernon Dursley was not a man to hand over his family lightly.
"They mean opportunity," I said smoothly. "But only if you stand with me."
He grunted, unimpressed. "Opportunity, eh? Sounds like you're angling to drag us into your world. And I want nothing to do with that freakish lot."
"Ah, but you're already entangled," I countered. "Your wife's blood ties bind you to it. Your son's cousin dragged it into your home. You think shutting your eyes makes it vanish? No. The Wizarding World has always been there, looming over you. You simply lacked the vision to see it."
His jaw worked. "So you're saying we've got no choice."
"There is always a choice," I said lightly. "You can stand with me — and benefit — or you can refuse. But know this: refusal means abandonment. And abandonment, in my world, is death."
Petunia's breath hitched, her hand flying to her mouth. Vernon only scowled deeper, though I saw the tremor in his thick fingers. He wasn't a fool. He understood threats when he heard them.
"Suppose we… stand with you," he said slowly. "What then? What's your grand plan?"
I allowed myself a thin smile. "To tear down the Wizarding World brick by brick and rebuild it. Their Ministry is a carcass, rotting from the inside. Their traditions, twisted by hypocrisy. I will either dissolve it entirely or seize control and reforge it in my image. Either way, the world that despised you, Petunia, will fall."
Her eyes widened, a strange light flickering there — fear mingled with something like hope.
Vernon, however, snorted. "Big talk for a boy who barely reaches the table."
"Appearances deceive," I replied calmly. "I have the power of lifetimes behind me. And I will not squander it. You asked what it means for you? It means protection. It means elevation. It means being more than petty people in a Surrey suburb. I will restore my family's House — the House of Evans — to the grandeur it deserves. And you, Vernon Dursley, may sit as a branch of it."
He blinked. "Restore it? What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means embracing truths your kind would call barbaric," I said, my voice cool. "The laws and customs of Pureblood society are older than your fragile kingdoms, and some of them would horrify your neighbors. For instance—" I folded my hands neatly atop the table. "Unlike Muggles, wizardkind can marry within their own family without fear of deformity or disease. Our blood is not chained by your limitations. Should a Pureblood line falter, it is required by law for the last heir to take multiple wives, to seed the line anew. Our children remain healthy, strong. That is the nature of magic."
Vernon's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you saying…" He ground the words out, moustache bristling. "Are you saying you'll need to… produce an heir with Petunia?"
Across the table, Petunia went stiff, her eyes wide.
I laughed — a genuine, cold laugh that echoed in the small kitchen and made both of them flinch. "Oh, Vernon. Must you always leap to such crude conclusions? No. I have no interest in bedding your wife. Though your discomfort is amusing."
His cheeks purpled. "Then what the devil are you saying?"
"I will perform a ritual," I explained smoothly. "A blood adoption. It will bind your branch of the family into mine. You, Petunia and Dudley will carry the Evans name. Perhaps when Dudley has a child they will be born with magic, though not to the degree it does in me. You, Vernon, will never wield it — but you will carry the prestige of a wizarding House. That is more than most Muggles could dream of."
He fell silent, digesting my words. His thick fingers drummed on the wood, slow and heavy. Petunia, pale but oddly hopeful, looked between us.
Finally, Vernon exhaled, a long gust of breath. He shifted in his chair, standing with surprising heaviness. His eyes, small though they were, met mine with something like resignation.
"Alright," he muttered. "You want us bound into your House. You want us to stand with you. Fine. We'll do it."
Petunia gasped softly.
Vernon's eyes hardened. "But don't think I'll roll over easily. You threaten my family, you hurt them, and I don't care what kind of freakish tricks you've got — I'll find a way to end you."
Defiance. I admired it, even as I dismissed it.
I inclined my head, lips curving faintly. "Spoken like a man worthy of standing at my table. You have my respect, Vernon Dursley. Few dare to glare into the eyes of power without blinking."
He grunted, uncomfortable with the compliment, and straightened his shirt. Then, awkwardly — stiffly — he bowed. Not deeply, not gracefully, but enough.
"My… lord," he said roughly. "Have you any tasks for me?"
The sight of Vernon Dursley, red-faced and bowing, nearly coaxed a laugh from me again. Instead, I allowed myself only a smirk.
"Yes," I said. "I need my name changed. Hadrian Marvolo Evans sounds perfect. I will need you to drive us to the Leaky Cauldron, I will show you the way."
Vernon straightened, moustache twitching. "That's it?"
"For now." I sipped my tea again, savoring the bitterness. "But soon, there will be much more."
And with that, the Dursleys were mine.