Things did not change all at once.
That was something I only understood later.
Time has a way of softening edges. When you live inside the same routine day after day, even the things that should trouble you begin to lose their sharpness.
Harry's first year in our house passed without much worth recording.
He grew the way any baby did—learning to turn over, then to walk, then to speak in broken fragments of words. He cried at night, fell ill at inconvenient times, and needed constant attention. We took him to the doctor more than once. Each time, we were told the same thing.
Perfectly healthy.
That mattered to me more than I liked to admit.
At least, medically, there was nothing wrong with him.
Days became months. Months turned into years. And by the time I truly noticed how much time had passed, Harry was old enough to go to school.
This wasn't an emotional decision. It was practical.
Children don't belong at home all day.
If we were going to keep him, then we had to do things properly. A child without structure becomes a problem. And problems attract attention.
I handled the paperwork myself.
The local primary school followed a familiar process—forms, addresses, signatures. The staff were polite and efficient. No one asked unnecessary questions. No one looked twice.
Walking out of the school office, I felt something loosen in my chest.
On paper, at least, Harry was now classified as ordinary.
The matter of clothes came up shortly after.
"Dudley's old uniforms are still in the cupboard," Petunia said.
I agreed immediately.
Children grow quickly. There was no sense in wasting money. Reusing clothes wasn't cruelty—it was practicality.
Harry stood quietly while trying them on.
The sleeves were too long. The trousers had to be folded at the hem. He didn't complain. He didn't ask for different ones.
"If something doesn't fit, say so," I told him.
He nodded.
It struck me then that he had learned something important very early.
He knew when not to ask.
That didn't make me proud, but it did ease my mind. A child who understood restraint was less likely to cause trouble.
Dudley's attitude toward Harry shifted slowly.
At first, he tolerated him.
Later, they began to play together.
They were close in age, close enough that their interests overlapped naturally. Building blocks. Toy cars. Kicking a ball around the garden. Activities that didn't require explanation.
The first time I saw them sitting together on the living room carpet, I stopped without realizing it.
Dudley gave instructions. Harry handed him pieces. When the blocks collapsed, Dudley grew irritated, while Harry simply rebuilt what had fallen.
"Why doesn't he talk much?" Dudley complained.
"Some children are quieter than others," I replied.
The words came easily.
Not as a defense.
Not as a warning.
Just a statement.
One afternoon, I came home from work to find them in the back garden.
Dudley ran ahead, shouting. Harry followed, slower, determined not to be left behind. Both were red-faced and breathless, laughter carrying across the lawn.
I watched from the kitchen window for a few moments.
For the first time, a thought crossed my mind that I hadn't allowed before.
Maybe this could work.
Not forever. But for now.
At dinner that evening, Harry ate all the vegetables on his plate. Dudley, as usual, did not.
Petunia glanced at me with a small smile.
I said nothing, but something settled into place inside me.
If anyone had looked through the window, they would have seen nothing unusual. Two children at a table. A routine evening. A normal household.
I drew a quiet conclusion.
As long as there were rules, things would remain under control.
But change never announces itself.
At first, it appeared in trivial ways.
I distinctly remembered placing my keys in the tray by the front door. The next morning, they were on the kitchen table.
I searched the house. I didn't ask anyone.
I must have moved them myself and forgotten.
Then there was the window.
I was certain I had closed it before bed. Yet when I got up in the night, there was a narrow gap, curtains shifting gently with the breeze.
"Probably didn't latch properly," Petunia said.
I agreed.
The third time was a toy car.
It was Dudley's favorite, kept on the highest shelf in his room. He had been very clear that no one else was to touch it.
One evening, I found it lying on the carpet, directly at Harry's feet.
Harry looked up at me, confused.
"I didn't touch it," he said.
His voice was steady. His eyes didn't move.
I picked up the car after a moment.
"Don't handle your cousin's things," I said.
He nodded. "Okay."
That should have been the end of it.
But that night, sleep refused to come.
It wasn't fear.
It was something harder to name.
Like reviewing a set of accounts where all the numbers added up, yet something still felt missing.
I told myself not to dwell on it.
With more children in the house, disorder was inevitable. Objects moved. Things were misplaced.
That was the explanation I chose.
And it was enough—for the moment.
What I didn't realize then was this:
When you find yourself explaining the same things again and again, they have already stopped being accidents.
The normalcy I had worked so carefully to preserve was thinner than I believed.
And it would not last.