The anger drained from the room slowly, leaving behind a silence so thick it felt like sediment. It was a heavy, exhausted quiet that settled into the fabric of the curtains and the cracks in the floorboards.
Jane leaned back against the sofa, her hands resting quietly on her knees. Across from her, Petunia's breathing was still uneven, a ragged hitch in her chest that she couldn't quite smooth over. The tension had finally left her shoulders, but it was replaced by a hollowed-out weariness. Neither of them looked at the other.
Their gazes settled on the same window, watching the dull, colorless stretch of sky beyond the glass. They didn't become close—not in that moment and not after everything that had been said.
The space between them remained raw and uncertain, a gap filled with years of silence and resentment. But the sharpest edges had dulled. They had found something else to turn toward, a shared focus that wasn't each other.
Petunia picked up her teacup. The tea had gone cold, a bitter, lukewarm dreg at the bottom, but she drank it anyway. She watched the liquid swirl in the cup. "What is wrong with your headmaster?" she asked, her voice sounding small and brittle.
"We do not know for certain," Jack replied calmly. "But he is clearly orchestrating something. What we have seen so far does not suggest anything good."
Jane leaned forward, her eyes searching Petunia's face, "Did anyone tell you how Lily died?"
Petunia was quiet for a long time. Her fingers traced the rim of her cup, circling the delicate gold leaf over and over. "No," she said at last. "No one told me anything."
She laughed, a short, bitter sound that held no humor. "I told Harry his parents died in a car crash. I didn't know what else to say. It was a lie that fit the world I wanted to live in."
Jane drew in a steady breath. "She was killed in a war."
Petunia lifted her head, her eyes wide.
"In the wizarding world," Jane continued, her French accent softening the words. "Here in Britain. It was the second war of its kind. The first was global, but this one remained here. It was still a bloody, senseless war."
She paused, choosing her words carefully.
"A dark wizard led it. A blood purist. He believed anyone with non-magical blood was inferior — half-bloods, mundane-born, it did not matter. He still has followers who hide in plain sight"
"Most people call him the Dark Lord," Jack said, his voice calm but firm. "Few dare speak his true name — it is said to be cursed. Instead they use You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
"Opposing him were Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix," Jane said quietly. "James and Lily were part of it. They were young, brave, and they fought for a world that did not want them."
Petunia's fingers tightened against the armrest of her chair until the wood creaked.
"The Dark Lord found them" Jane said. "Someone they trusted had betrayed their location. They were killed. Harry survived, and that same night the Dark Lord vanished. Afterwards, Harry became known as the Boy Who Lived. A hero for a world he didn't even know existed."
Jack picked up the thread of the story, his face grim. "The Ministry claimed Sirius Black was the traitor. He was Harry's godfather, the man who should have taken him. But they sent him to Azkaban without a trial. They just locked him away."
Petunia went pale, her hand rising to cover her mouth. Her eyes were glazed with a memory. Lily had told her about Azkaban—about the Dementors, the cold that never left your bones, and the way they sucked the hope right out of a person.
"The timing doesn't hold," Jack added. "Our petition for guardianship was rejected not long after Lily died, around the same time Black was sentenced. It was all too fast. Too convenient."
"In our world, guardianship follows a clear order," Viviane said, her tone measured and precise. "Godparents have priority. If they cannot take the child, it passes to the closest magical blood relatives. If there are none, it goes to the mundane family. Jane should have been the first choice."
"The wards on this house are highly intricate," Elara said. "They were not built in haste. The complexity alone would have required weeks of preparation."
Jack looked back at Petunia. "There are also rumors that the Dark Lord is still alive. A ghost, a shadow, waiting for a chance to return."
"The Ministry told us we cannot meet Harry until he turns eleven — until he receives his Hogwarts letter." Jane's voice carried a cold edge. "That means no contact with our world, no one to tell him who he is, and no one to prepare him. He is being kept in the dark."
She paused for emphasis, her gaze piercing.
"And Dumbledore will be waiting to mentor him. To shape the Boy Who Lived into whatever he needs him to be."
Petunia's expression shifted rapidly. It was a kaleidoscope of emotion, moving from understanding to cold horror and finally settling into something sharp and furious.
"Beast," Petunia whispered, horror and fury mingling in her voice. "What a beast."
Her hands trembled where they rested against the table.
"I treated him badly," Petunia said, her voice raw. "I know that. I looked at him and saw the magic that took my sister. But I never wanted him dead. He is my nephew."
She pressed her palm against her chest. "Is he senile? He is a child, for God's sake. He is just a little boy."
Jack shook his head. "It is still speculation. There are many who didn't want Harry raised in the wizarding world, so it could be a coincidence. Perhaps they thought he would be safer here."
He paused, his eyes narrowing. "But it's the worst conclusion the evidence allows. That's why we are determined to take Harry away. We won't leave him as a pawn on a board he can't see."
Petunia leaned back, her face pale. One hand rose to her temple, pressing hard as if to push back the ache building behind her eyes. "Wait," she said. "You mentioned the wards. Recording and alarm functions."
Elara inclined her head. "Yes. It took us nearly two months to find even a single weakness from the outside. I have made a temporary adjustment. It will hold until nine this evening."
She stood up and turned to leave. "Continue your discussion. Now that I'm inside, studying the structure will be easier."
Without another word, she left the room, her footsteps silent on the carpet.
. . .
The afternoon stretched on as the light shifted through the window, the shadows on the carpet growing longer and thinner with the passing hours. Outside, the garden was small, just a strip of grass and a few flower beds bounded by a fence that needed painting. The air was still, smelling of freshly cut lawn and the faint, sweet scent of the neighbor's roses.
Morwenna sat with her back against the wood, the sun warm on her face. Dudley was throwing a ball against the wall of the house—a dull, rhythmic thud of rubber on brick that was loud and repetitive. Harry stood near the flower bed with his hands in his pockets, watching the other boy with a careful, guarded stillness.
Dudley kicked his football at Harry, who dodged the blow with a practiced flinch. Dudley kicked it harder the second time, and the ball hit Harry's shoulder with a heavy smack. Harry didn't cry. He didn't even make a sound. He just stepped back, his shoulders hunched as he waited for the next strike, his eyes fixed on Dudley's feet.
Morwenna walked over, her movements slow and deliberate, and took the football from Dudley's hands.
"Hey," Dudley started to protest, his face scrunching up in anger.
She looked at him, her face perfectly still. Her eyes were green now—the Evans green—not red and silver, but the weight behind them hadn't changed. They were flat and cold. Dudley's mouth closed instantly, the protest dying in his throat. She handed the ball to Harry. "Kick it back to me."
Harry looked at her, then at the ball, and finally at Dudley. His movements were hesitant. He kicked it, but the ball rolled wide, past Morwenna and toward the fence. She fetched it, the grass rustling under her boots, and kicked it back to him. She kept the motion soft and easy, making sure the ball stopped right at his toes.
They played for an hour while Dudley hovered at the edge of the lawn. He was unsure and angry, a large boy who didn't know what to do with himself when he wasn't the center of attention. When he tried to shove Harry, Morwenna got between them. She didn't shove back; she just stood her ground like a stone pillar.
Dudley shoved her, but she didn't move. He tried again, harder this time, putting his weight into it, and she grabbed his wrist. Her grip was small but incredibly strong, her fingers like iron bands. Something in her expression—a cold, clinical observation—made him stop trying.
"You are bigger than him," Morwenna said, her voice flat and cold. "It is not a fair fight. Stop."
Dudley pulled his hand back, his face turning a dark, frustrated red, and didn't try again. Later, while Morwenna sat against the fence, Dudley resumed throwing the ball against the wall. He noticed her watching him.
"You are a girl," he said, as if it were an insult.
"Yes."
"You are weird."
"Yes."
He threw the ball harder. It hit the wall and bounced back, almost hitting Harry in the face. Harry flinched but didn't move from his spot, as if he were rooted there by fear. Dudley laughed, a loud, unpleasant sound.
Morwenna stood up and walked to where Dudley was standing. She was shorter and smaller than him, but she didn't stop until she was close enough to see the tiny red veins in his cheeks and the sweat on his upper lip.
"Throw the ball at him again," Morwenna said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "and I will show you what happens when I stop being nice.
Dudley stared at her, his mouth opening and then closing like a fish. Before he could speak, she moved faster than he expected. Her foot hooked behind his ankle while her hand pushed his shoulder, and he fell.
The grass was soft, so he wasn't hurt, but he was on the ground with her standing over him, her shadow covering his face and blocking out the sun. He didn't throw the ball again.
Harry watched the entire exchange, his eyes very wide behind his taped glasses. Morwenna looked at him, the hardness in her gaze softening just a fraction. "You are Harry."
He nodded once, a quick, jerky movement.
"I'm Nimue. Your cousin."
He didn't say anything, but he watched her as she sat back down against the fence. After a moment, Harry sat beside her. He wasn't close—there was still a foot of grass between them—but he was close enough. Dudley stayed on the grass, staring at the sky with a stunned expression until the adults called them inside.
. . .
The front door had opened earlier while the children were still outside. Vernon Dursley stepped into the hallway, a large, broad-shouldered man with a red face and a thick, bristly mustache. He stopped in his tracks when he saw the visitors.
Petunia stood up, her posture regaining its brittle strength. "Vernon. These are family. Distant family from France." She introduced them one by one: Jane, Jack, Elara, Viviane, and Nimue on the outside.
Vernon's face went through a rapid succession of expressions, moving from confusion to suspicion and finally to open dislike. He looked at Jane's elegant clothes and then at Jack's calm demeanor.
"So you're the magic people," Vernon said, spitting the word like a curse.
"The same," Jane replied, her voice cool.
The shouting started soon after. Vernon's voice rose, a booming roar that made the framed pictures on the wall tremble. His face turned a deep, alarming red as Petunia tried to calm him, her hands fluttering like nervous birds. Jack stood with his arms crossed while Jane sat on the sofa, her face still and unreadable.
The argument rolled through the living room, touching on money, the burden of responsibility, and the boy who had been left on their doorstep six years ago. Vernon complained about the cost of food, the "abnormality" of the situation, and the way they had been forced to take him in.
By the time the children were called inside, the sharpest edges of the conflict had dulled, worn down by the sheer persistence of the visitors.
Petunia's heart ached when she saw Dudley. His face was red and his clothes were grass-stained, making him look like he had been crying, though she knew he would never admit it in front of strangers. She hardened her heart, swallowing back the urge to coddle him. Jane's words echoed in her head; it wasn't good for him to become violent or to learn that bullying was acceptable. It would only lead him to trouble later.
Vernon saw his son and opened his mouth to roar, his chest puffing out, but then he saw Morwenna. She stood in the doorway, her green eyes flat and her face still. She was looking at him the way one looks at something they have stepped in and need to scrape off their shoe. Her expression was one of annoyance and disgust, as if he wasn't worth her time or the effort of a conversation.
Vernon's mouth shut as he stared at her, caught off guard by the sheer intensity in the young girl's gaze, but she had already looked away. His face went red again, and he opened his mouth once more, his hands clench into fists.
Jack cleared his throat. Vernon looked at him and found Jack's face was calm. He didn't look angry or threatening; he just looked like a man who had noticed something and was reminding Vernon that he was still there, a silent warning in the set of his jaw.
Vernon closed his mouth and sat down heavily in the armchair, the springs groaning under his weight. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice a low growl.
"We want Harry to come with us," Jack said steadily. "Not full-time. The wards require him to stay here at least ten to fourteen days each month to remain effective."
Elara had returned from the outside and nodded in agreement. "The woman at number two will notice if he disappears completely. She is watching. And if the wards detect he is gone too long, Dumbledore will be alerted. We can't risk a direct confrontation yet."
Jane looked at Vernon, her eyes sharp. "We want to take him for sixteen to eighteen days per month. The rest of the time, he stays here. What do you think?"
Vernon grumbled, his jaw working as he looked at Petunia. She nodded, a silent plea in her eyes.
"Fine," he said, his voice thick with reluctance. "But the money—"
"The stipend will be deposited monthly," Jane said, cutting him off. "A generous amount for his care and for your cooperation. You will not need to worry about the extra cost."
Vernon's shoulders eased at that, the mention of money acting as a balm to his temper. "And school?"
Jack answered. "He will need to leave formal school. He will be homeschooled. If he isn't seen outside as often, no one will ask questions about where he goes or what he is doing."
Vernon waved a hand dismissively. "Fine. Fine. We will pull him out. Little brat was always causing trouble anyway. Homeschooling is easier to explain to the neighbors. Anything else?"
Jane thought for a moment and then wrote an address on a piece of paper in elegant, looping script. "Tomorrow, drive Harry to this address. It's a pediatrician, Nimue's doctor. We will meet you there at ten o'clock for a full check-up."
Petunia looked at Harry, who was standing by the sofa. "Do you understand?"
Harry nodded. He didn't fully understand, but he knew enough. He would live with his cousin for part of every month. He would be away from the cupboard under the stairs.
Elara stepped toward the door. "I need more time with the wards. Come outside, all of you. I will record your magical signatures so the wards will not alert Dumbledore when you come and go. I will also loosen the restrictions around speaking about Harry, so you can discuss these arrangements without the magic choking you."
She walked out, and Jack and Jane followed with Viviane. Petunia sat Harry down in the living room, her movements stiff. Morwenna perched on the arm of the sofa, nibbling on a biscuit she had scavenged from the kitchen. Her tea had gone cold, but she drank it anyway, the ceramic clinking against her teeth, and reached for another biscuit.
Petunia sat Harry down and spoke in a low, stiff voice. "You will live with your other family for part of every month. You will be homeschooled. You must not tell anyone where you go."
Harry listened and nodded whenever she paused, his face a mask of careful neutrality. He didn't ask questions; he had learned long ago that questions led to silence or anger.
Morwenna watched his face, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the way his clothes hung loose, casting shadows in the hollows of his collarbone. She drank her cold tea and said nothing, her gaze never leaving him.
The adults came back inside, bringing the scent of the evening air with them. Viviane set her satchel on the coffee table and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment—the heavy, cream-colored kind used for writing the contract. She set out two pens, two inkpots, and two needles, the silver gleaming in the light of the lamp.
- - -
MAISON BEAUMONT
Notaires Magiques — Office of Magical Contracts & Binding Instruments Instrument
Reference: BMC/VB/1987/047
Notary: Viviane Beaumont — Certified Blood-Contract Officer
Date of Execution: 6th August, 1987
Classification: Binding Magical Instrument — Private Record
FORMAL AGREEMENT REGARDING THE GUARDIANSHIP AND CUSTODY OF HARRY JAMES POTTER
Dated this sixth day of August, in the year nineteen hundred and eighty-seven
PREAMBLE
This instrument is entered into freely and voluntarily by all parties named hereunder. It is witnessed, prepared, and bound under the authority of Maison Beaumont, whose contracts are anchored to the magical cores and bloodlines of their signatories and are not subject to Ministry of Magic oversight, interference, or dissolution.
The parties acknowledge that this agreement concerns the welfare of a minor child and that the terms herein shall be upheld with the full weight of blood-sworn obligation.
Whereas the child Harry James Potter, born 31st July 1980, is currently of an age and circumstance requiring stable and considered guardianship arrangements; and
Whereas all parties have come to this agreement of their own will and in full knowledge of its binding nature; and
Whereas the terms set forth below serve the best interest of the child and the mutual understanding of all parties;
The parties hereby agree as follows.
ARTICLE I — PARTIES TO THE AGREEMENT
First Party: Jane Evans Keith, of Keith Manor — magical guardian
Second Party: Jack Keith, of Keith Manor — magical guardian
Third Party: Petunia Evans Dursley, of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey — mundane guardian
Fourth Party: Vernon Dursley, of 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey — mundane guardian
ARTICLE II — TERMS OF CUSTODY ARRANGEMENT
Harry James Potter shall reside with Petunia Evans Dursley and Vernon Dursley for a period of no fewer than ten and no more than fourteen days per calendar month. For the remaining days of each calendar month, he shall reside with Jane Evans Keith and Jack Keith at Keith Manor or such other residence as they shall designate.
The parties shall coordinate transitions in good faith, with no fewer than forty-eight hours notice given where circumstances allow. Neither party shall withhold the child from the other without cause recognised by this instrument.
This arrangement shall continue until the child reaches magical majority as defined by applicable wizarding law, or until all parties jointly agree in writing to modify or dissolve it.
ARTICLE III — CONFIDENTIALITY
All parties are bound to silence regarding the existence, terms, and parties of this agreement. No signatory may disclose any element of this contract to any third party without the explicit written consent of all other signatories.
The memories of mundane signatories pertaining to this agreement and to all matters of magical nature disclosed in its course are hereby placed under the protection of this instrument. No party, magical or otherwise, may access, alter, or extract said memories without the explicit consent of the memory's holder, said consent to be valid only after all other parties to this contract have agreed in writing.
ARTICLE IV — VOLUNTARY DECLARATION & BLOOD OATHS
All parties affirm that they enter this agreement freely and without coercion. The blood-sworn oaths below constitute binding confirmation of this declaration and are recorded here as sworn and sealed.
- - -
Viviane slid the parchment across the table toward Petunia. The two pens lay beside it, their silver barrels catching the lamp's yellow glow, and the two needles rested beside those, gleaming with a sharp, sterile light.
"Same process," Viviane said. Her voice was level and rhythmic, as if she were reciting a well-known litany. "Ink. Blood. Then write."
Petunia looked at the needle for a moment, the metal a tiny, cruel sliver against the dark wood. She picked it up. She pricked her fingertip without ceremony, the skin yielding with a tiny, sharp sting.
She pressed three drops of blood into the inkpot Viviane indicated, the red blooming for a second before the black ink swallowed it whole, and then she dipped the pen. She wrote in her careful, upright hand. The letters were precise and slightly too even—the handwriting of someone who had been corrected for messiness as a child and had never forgotten the shame of it.
I, Petunia Evans Dursley, swear by my family magic and the blood that flows in my veins that I am not forced in this agreement. I enter it willingly and with full understanding of its terms. I swear that I will not tell anyone about this matter without the consent of all parties who have signed this contract.
Because I cannot do magic, I entrust the protection of my memories to the magic of this contract. No one may access them without my explicit consent, and such consent shall only be valid after the other parties to this contract have agreed. So mote it be.
The words lit briefly with a pale gold light that faded before it had fully registered on the eye. The parchment smoothed as the magic-infused ink settled into the fibers, and then it was still.
Viviane slid the parchment to Vernon without comment.
He looked at the needle, his thick fingers appearing clumsy as he reached for it. He picked it up and pricked his finger with the blunt determination of a man completing a task he had already decided to finish.
He pressed his drops into the second inkpot, his face a mask of stubborn resignation. He wrote standing up, the parchment slightly awkward at coffee table height for someone of his size, but he didn't ask to sit down. He simply hunched over, the nib of the pen scratching loudly against the heavy paper.
I, Vernon Dursley, swear by my bloodline and my integrity that I am not forced in this agreement. I enter it willingly and with full understanding of its terms. I swear that I will not tell anyone about this matter without the consent of all parties who have signed this contract.
Because I cannot do magic, I entrust the protection of my memories to the magic of this contract. No one may access them without my explicit consent, and such consent shall only be valid after the other parties to this contract have agreed.
The words glowed as Petunia's had, a warm amber pulse that faded just as quickly.
Vernon capped the pen and set it down with more force than was necessary, the metal clicking against the wood. He said nothing, but his jaw remained tight under his mustache.
Jane took the parchment next. She didn't need the needle. She held the pen, the silver cool against her skin, and let her magic move through it. She wrote her name in a flowing, elegant script. Jack did the same, his signature quick and unhesitating.
Viviane took the parchment back and checked it from top to bottom. Satisfied, she stamped the parchment with her silver seal. The butterfly appeared, wings spread in a delicate, permanent impression, pressed into the cream-colored page.
"None of you will receive a copy of this contract," she said. Her voice was firm, leaving no room for negotiation. "The original will be held with the other documents in my family's vault, safe from any prying eyes."
She rolled the parchment with practiced ease and tucked it into her satchel, the leather strap clicking shut.
Handshakes were exchanged. Brief. Formal. Done.
Jane crouched in front of Harry, her silk skirt brushing the carpet. She looked at his face—the dark circles, the too-large clothes, and the vibrant green eyes that were the same shade as hers. She put her hand on his shoulder. His shoulder blades were sharp and prominent under her palm, a reminder of how little there was to his frame.
"See you tomorrow," she said. Her tone was gentle and brief, a promise whispered into the quiet of the room.
Jack did the same. His hand was larger, his pat heavier, but he was careful not to use his full strength.
Morwenna stepped forward, her movements silent. She looked at him. She really looked at him, searching his face for the shared history in his blood.
"Tomorrow," she said.
Harry looked back at her. His green eyes were the same as hers, at least for today. He nodded, a small, tentative movement.
She stood and walked to the door. Elara held it open, her silhouette dark against the light of the street. The family stepped out into the quiet evening.
The sun was low on the horizon, casting long, thin shadows across the pavement and turning the neighborhood into a landscape of orange and grey. Number Four grew smaller as they walked toward the waiting cab, its engine idling at the curb. The curtains in the front window were still drawn. The Dursley car was still parked in the driveway, a solid, mundane presence.
Morwenna climbed into the cab and pressed her face to the cool glass of the window. She watched the house shrink, then disappear around the corner as they pulled away.
She thought about Harry's eyes and the way they had widened when she threw the knife. She thought about the way he had flinched when Dudley kicked the ball and the way he had made himself small, trying to occupy as little space as possible.
Something behind those walls was still pulling at Morwenna's chest, a faint, nagging tension. But the thread felt looser now. Like something that had been wound too tight for too many years was finally beginning to give.
The cab turned the corner. The neighborhood vanished behind a row of identical trees.
Morwenna leaned her head against the glass and watched London slide past.