Mr. and Mrs. Mason were already halfway up the perfectly trimmed garden path, dressed in tasteful, expensive clothing and carrying a bottle of wine wrapped in gold foil. I walked beside them with Hermione at my side, the both of us dressed for diplomacy and plausible deniability. Behind us, Mr. Pennywhistle shuffled with a calm, unbothered air that only a career squib with a fake business card and real Ministry access could pull off.
I could practically hear the Dursleys' anxiety vibrating through the bricks of Number Four.
The door opened as Mr. Mason reached for the bell.
"Mr. and Mrs. Mason," Vernon Dursley greeted, trying to smile and failing so hard it nearly sprained his jowls. "Welcome!"
"Mr. Dursley," Mason returned smoothly. "Lovely place. Lovely hedge. Almost aggressively suburban."
Petunia appeared beside her husband with a pinched look that was probably supposed to resemble a polite smile.
"And these are...?"
"Ah yes," I said, stepping forward. "My name is Sky Kingston and this is my associate Hermione Granger. I'm Mr. Mason's godson. And that's Mr. Pennywhistle—logistics consultant."
In some manners, it looked almost hilarious considering a 12 year old was stating he had an associate as if I had a mountain of paperwork to do at home.
Mr. Pennywhistle gave a crisp, professional nod like he'd just audited their soul.
"Please. Do come in," Vernon muttered, already sweating. "We've got... tea."
The interior of Number Four was everything I remembered from surveillance and nothing worth remembering. Neat, beige, and terrified of color.
Really, the house looked almost picturesque from a Grandmothers point of view.
Only thing missing was the smell and the mountain of cats.
Wait.... Thats, Mrs. Figgs isnt it?
We entered the dining room where a roast sat under a silver lid and Dudley loomed like a pink couch in human form.
Introductions happened. Small talk flowed. Dudley pretended to know how to hold a fork.
I wish I can call it small talk but apparently, everyone talked a LOT.
I mean really, what is so funny about a Japanese Golfer.
When is Dessert?
And then I felt it.
A ripple. A shimmer.
I turned toward the kitchen doorway in time to see a floating cake inching its way toward the Masons.
Dobby.
"...and of course our son's attending—"
"Excuse me," I said suddenly, standing up with perfect calm. "I believe I need the loo."
I walked past the dining room, turned the corner—and there he was.
Harry Potter, crouched on the floor in panic, whispering to a hovering Dobby holding up a massive, quivering cake.
"Dobby, don't—please—"
I snapped my fingers.
The cake froze in midair.
Harry stared at me like I'd grown antlers.
"Evening," I said smoothly. "Dobby, how's your reading going?"
Dobby froze. His ears flattened.
"Dobby is—Dobby is trying to protect Harry Potter—"
"By decapitating a guest with custard? Bold choice."
I walked forward, gently took the cake with one hand, and let it vanish into my storage with the other.
"Go home, Dobby. Dunce cap. Corner. Don't move until I return. No punishment without permission."
"Y-yes sir," Dobby squeaked, then disappeared with a pop, already looking ashamed.
I turned to Harry.
I take out a plate with chicken, Mash potatoes, and a variety of food from the great hall the year before.
"Take this upstairs and eat this for now. We'll talk later. Enjoy your... well, enjoy your hallway? anyways..shoo shoo."
Back in the dining room, I smiled as I returned to my seat. "Apologies. Crisis averted."
Dinner proceeded. The Masons asked polite questions. Vernon laughed too hard. Dudley inhaled gravy.
After dessert, I stood with a glass of water. "Mr. and Mrs. Mason, thank you so much for joining us. Mr. Pennywhistle, Hermione and I have some numbers to review with Mr. Dursley—logistics for upcoming shipments. Nothing exciting."
"Of course," Mrs. Mason said, dabbing her lips. "We'll be off, then. Wonderful meal."
They left with handshakes and polite nods. As they stepped through the door, I turned back to Vernon.
"Mr. Dursley," I said as the door shut behind our departing guests. "May we speak in private?"
Hermione and Pennywhistle sat in the lounge, pretending to review numbers.
I led Vernon into the kitchen.
"You've been housing a child who isn't yours. No one paid you. No recognition. And you endured it in silence."
Vernon looked lost with shock for a second.
Suddenly his eyes flashed understanding and scowled. "You're one of them. One of those freaks."
I raised a hand slowly, palms open. "I was raised by normal folk, Mr. Dursley. I didn't choose to be dragged into all this, and I don't blame you for your caution. But punishing me for circumstances I never controlled is hardly just."
"I don't want to hear any of this," Vernon barked, turning as if to leave.
"What if I told you," I said calmly, "that I'm offering a way to lessen your exposure to our kind? At the very least to the one living upstairs."
He stopped.
Slowly, he turned back, narrowing his eyes.
"Go on," he grunted.
I gave a measured nod. "That's more like it."
"You should be compensated."
His mouth opened. Closed. "Damn well I should," he muttered, his voice gravelly with a mix of outrage and dawning interest.
"I want to propose a deal. I'll take him for half the holidays every year. You keep the other half. In exchange? I'll purchase all your defective drill stock. Above labor and material cost. You recover losses. You gain space. You get peace."
He stared.
"And all you have to do is sign one freak contract... and one normal one. Just this once. The only magical thing you'll ever need to touch."
He looked at the scrolls I pulled from my coat with distaste.
"Why are you helping me?" he asked.
I smiled. "Because you deserve better."
His hand trembled as he reached for the pen.