The next morning, everything looked normal.
That was the most dangerous part.
Sunlight came through the living room window at the exact angle it always did.
The curtains were drawn back to their usual place.
A car started next door at the usual time.
No voices carried down the street. No one stopped to look.
Privet Drive continued as if nothing had happened.
If it weren't for the small baby basket placed beside the sofa, I might have convinced myself that the night before had been nothing more than a bad dream.
Harry was sleeping.
I found myself watching him longer than I meant to.
In daylight, he looked ordinary. Smaller than Dudley, perhaps, but otherwise no different from any other infant. The mark on his forehead wasn't as noticeable now—just a faint line that could easily be mistaken for an old scratch.
An unwanted child.
That was the thought I didn't say out loud.
I stood by the dining table with a mug in my hand, the tea already cooling. What mattered now wasn't what we had done last night.
It was what we were going to do next.
Petunia had been awake before me.
She moved around the kitchen with careful precision, keeping her voice low, her footsteps soft, as if the entire house were balanced on something fragile. She didn't avoid looking at the baby, but she didn't hover either. Everything she did seemed calculated to preserve a sense of order.
"He woke up once," she said quietly.
"Changed him. He went back to sleep."
I nodded.
It wasn't concern.
It was confirmation.
Dudley was still asleep in his room. I glanced at the closed door without thinking. That door mattered more than anything else in the house.
"We need to talk," I said.
Petunia turned off the stove and sat across from me. Her hands folded together on the table. She didn't argue. She had been expecting this.
"We can't leave things like this," I said.
"Last night was an emergency. This morning, we handle it properly."
She looked at me, waiting.
"We contact social services," I continued.
"An orphanage. Temporary care. That's what those systems exist for."
It was the cleanest solution I could think of.
A phone call.
Paperwork.
Signatures.
The child would be taken away.
Our life would return to normal.
"You can't send him to an orphanage," Petunia said.
Her voice was calm.
Certain.
"Petunia," I said, keeping my tone measured, "that's not punishment. That's procedure."
"You know what those places are like," she replied.
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I did know.
Crowded rooms.
Too many children.
Not enough hands.
They were fed. They were clothed. But they were rarely chosen.
I had always told myself that those were societal problems, not personal ones.
But now the problem was breathing quietly beside our sofa.
"We're not prepared," I said.
"We don't have the time, the space, or the resources. We have our own child."
Petunia nodded.
"I know," she said.
"That's exactly why I won't send him away."
"You can't make decisions out of guilt," I said.
She met my eyes.
"It isn't guilt," she said.
"It's a line I won't cross."
The word unsettled me.
"He's my sister's child," she continued.
"No matter how… irresponsible her life was, he isn't."
I frowned.
I didn't like the way she spoke about her sister.
That world—her sister's world—had always made me uncomfortable. Not because of anything concrete, but because it didn't follow rules.
Still, there was no arguing with one simple truth:
The baby had done nothing wrong.
I looked at Harry again.
He slept peacefully, unaware of the discussion happening around him. He looked like any other infant—small, vulnerable, inconvenient.
"We could arrange better foster care," I said finally.
"Not immediately, but eventually. Somewhere stable."
Petunia shook her head.
"You know what that means," she said.
"He'd be moved again and again. No one would actually want him."
I was silent.
I thought of Dudley.
Of the relief we'd felt when the doctor told us he was healthy.
Of the future we had planned for him—steady, secure, uninterrupted.
And for the first time, I realized something that made me uncomfortable:
I didn't disagree with her.
What frightened me wasn't her reasoning.
It was how easily it made sense.
"This is temporary," I said at last.
"We keep him for now. That doesn't mean this is permanent."
Petunia's shoulders relaxed slightly.
"We'll take care of him," she said.
"Care doesn't mean indulgence," I replied immediately.
"If he stays here, he follows the rules of this house."
She nodded.
"And Dudley comes first," I added.
"No matter what."
"Of course," she said.
There was nothing more to say.
Because I knew my decision wasn't born from kindness.
It came from weighing two outcomes:
Sending him away—clean, quick, and morally distant.
Or keeping him—messy, inconvenient, but undeniably human.
Breakfast ended quietly.
I packed my briefcase and straightened my jacket, preparing to leave for work. Routine mattered. Routine meant control.
Before I stepped outside, I looked back at the living room one last time.
Harry was still asleep.
Sunlight touched his face, and for a moment, he looked almost harmless.
Almost ordinary.
For a brief, foolish second, I wondered if we could contain this—if with enough discipline and restraint, this exception could remain just that.
An exception.
I closed the door and stepped onto the pavement.
Everything looked normal.
And it was that very normality that kept me from realizing—
I had already made a choice.
Not out of love.
Not out of obligation.
But because, in that moment, it felt like the most decent thing a man could do.
I didn't yet understand that some compromises don't stay temporary.
They become foundations.