Saturday, June 22, 1991.
Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, London, stood as a monument to aggressively enforced mediocrity. It was a pristine, two-story box of brick, meticulously manicured and utterly devoid of any natural disorder.
The lawn was cut to a uniform three-millimeter height; the marigolds were arranged by color gradient; the windowpanes reflected the sun with a dazzling, almost hostile cleanliness. This house was the physical manifestation of Vernon Dursley's soul: controlled, conventional, and perpetually screaming about its own supposed perfection.
The day had been agony for Harry Potter. Since dawn, Uncle Vernon had driven the entire household through a cleaning regimen that bordered on military madness. Harry's thin frame ached from hours spent scrubbing baseboards, polishing the silver, and weeding the gravel drive until his fingertips were raw. Lunch had been a silent, hurried affair, consumed standing up, as Vernon feared the potential for crumbs.
The head of the household, a man whose neck seemed to have vanished entirely into his florid, broad shoulders, was a ticking time bomb of anticipation. He wore a brand-new suit, which seemed to strain against his substantial girth, and his breath smelled faintly of anxiety and a recent, aggressive shave.
Petunia Dursley, tall and slender, moved with nervous grace, constantly patting her impeccably styled blonde hair, her gaze darting to nonexistent dust motes. Their son, Dudley Dursley, was merely a large, sluggish passenger in this frenzy, occasionally tasked with moving from one overstuffed armchair to another.
Harry, exhausted, was finishing the dinner dishes—an unnecessary task, as Petunia usually insisted on the sterilizing properties of her new dishwasher—when Vernon cleared his throat with a loud, theatrical ahem.
"Tonight," Vernon announced, adjusting his tie with a sweaty finger, "is not merely an evening. It is an event. A very, very important strategic maneuver for the future of the Dursley family's financial portfolio!"
Harry, rinsing a plate, mentally rolled his eyes. He had been drowning in this corporate fervor all week. The mysterious Board Member's visit was the culmination of Vernon's tireless efforts to climb the ladder at Grunnings.
The rumors were intoxicating to Vernon: the Board Member was young, secretive, rarely attended corporate functions, and, most crucially, was whispered to be the largest, single shareholder in the company.
If I impress this person, Vernon had lectured Petunia incessantly, I secure my place at the very top. Manager is merely a title; CEO is destiny!
"This opportunity is priceless!" Vernon's voice rose, losing its practiced corporate smoothness and regaining its usual bluster. "The general manager position, the exponential bonus structure, the summer house in the Mediterranean—it all hinges on the next hour! We must execute the final rehearsal flawlessly."
Petunia straightened, her thin lips pulled into what she thought was a look of "eager professionalism." "The entire house is sterile, Vernon. Every cushion has been plumped. The veneer of normalcy is impenetrable."
"Good. Now, positions!"
Vernon strode to the front door, assuming his "Chief Executive Greeting Stance"—a stiff, upright posture designed to convey immediate warmth mixed with unwavering authority.
"Now, Penny, you emerge from the kitchen twenty seconds after the initial greeting, conveying a sense of delightful, spontaneous surprise at the honor of their presence. Let's see the smile."
Petunia immediately stretched her face, producing a wide, unsettlingly rigid grimace that lacked any genuine emotion.
"No, no, wrong!" Vernon bellowed, slapping his hand against the wall. "That is the 'I just found a slug in my hydrangeas' smile! I need the 'My husband just secured a quarterly bonus of fifty thousand pounds' smile! More natural! More enthusiastic subservience!"
Petunia struggled, eventually settling on a less strained, albeit still artificial, expression.
"Better. Dudley!" Vernon pointed at his son. "You stand two paces behind your mother. You greet the guests with a respectful, quiet 'Good evening, sir and madam,' and then immediately and politely withdraw to your room to play with your expensive, non-messy toys. No sticky fingers! No noise! Do you understand, my little champion?"
Dudley, who had been staring dreamily at the dessert tray, grunted a barely audible acknowledgment.
Finally, Vernon's eyes locked onto Harry, who was drying his hands on a tea towel. The warmth instantly drained from Vernon's face, replaced by a deep, visceral resentment.
"You, boy! Listen to me!" Vernon lumbered forward, leaning over Harry so his enormous face filled the boy's vision, his breath thick and warning. "Since the age of five, I have sacrificed my dignity to keep you upstairs, out of that… that cupboard! I've fed you, clothed you, and tolerated the inherent strangeness that clings to you."
He jabbed a thick finger violently toward the small, jagged, lightning-bolt scar on Harry's forehead.
"That mark, that abomination, is the single greatest threat to my career tonight! It bothers people! It speaks of abnormality! You are a necessary, temporary evil, and you will stay completely invisible! You are to be locked in your upstairs room. You will make no sound, no movement, and if any magical oddity occurs in this house tonight, you will answer to me."
Vernon concluded the threat with chilling finality. "If you ruin this, Harry, I swear by all that is conventional, you will spend the entire summer vacation confined to the house, and your pathetic little room will be emptied and you will return to the cupboard under the stairs permanently. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
Harry nodded miserably, his bright green eyes shadowed behind his worn, round glasses.
The Dursleys retreated to their tense, three-person vigil. Vernon stared obsessively at the tick-tock of the grandmother clock in the hallway, convinced the apparatus had been magically sabotaged to move at half speed. Every minute was an eternity of corporate desperation.
Finally, with a loud, almost alarming chime, the clock struck eight o'clock.
Tough-Tough-
The doorbell, a discreet two-note chime, rang precisely on the hour. The Dursleys, a trained unit, snapped into motion.
Vernon took a deep, shuddering breath, pasted his widest, most artificial smile onto his face, and yanked open the door.
Standing on the pristine welcome mat were two figures that instantly unsettled Vernon's carefully managed expectations. He had anticipated an aging, stiff-collared executive; instead, he saw a man who looked barely thirty, radiating an aura of casual, yet undeniable, authority that had nothing to do with expensive suits.
Sebastian Swann was tall, impossibly well-dressed in a bespoke suit that looked both modern and timeless, and his smile was entirely too relaxed. On his arm was a woman of stunning, understated elegance, Mia, whose dark hair was swept up in a sophisticated style, wearing a dress that Vernon couldn't even guess the price of.
"Good evening, dear Mr. and Mrs. Swann!" Vernon boomed, trying to recover. He bowed slightly, adopting a tone he hoped conveyed both respect and equal footing. "What an enormous privilege it is to welcome you to our humble abode! Please, come in, come in!"
As Sebastian stepped into the entrance hall, his eyes immediately tracked to the low, unassuming door tucked beneath the staircase. The muscles around his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He murmured a quiet sentence to himself, his voice laced with an emotion Vernon couldn't place: a mix of melancholy and cold professional certainty.
"The architecture remains faithful," Sebastian noted quietly. "What a classic, utterly perfect storage solution."
Vernon's forced smile flickered. He barely caught the word "storage," and his mind, already swimming with corporate paranoia, immediately tried to assign significance to the cupboard. Is he an expert in British suburban storage standards? Is this a trick question?
"I… beg your pardon, Mr. Swann?" Vernon asked, trying to sound jovial, ushering them into the living room. "Is there something specific about the… the hallway aesthetic?"
"Nothing at all, Mr. Dursley," Sebastian replied smoothly, settling gracefully onto the best sofa with Mia beside him. "Just appreciating the structural integrity of your excellent property. It's always best to conduct a thorough environmental review, wouldn't you agree?"
Petunia, who had just entered the room with her carefully practiced smile, froze the moment she saw Mia. The elegant woman's face, her poise, the delicate structure of her cheekbones—it struck a chord of bitter, long-suppressed memory. The familiarity was profound, disturbing, and terrifyingly close to the kind of abnormality Petunia had spent twenty years erasing.
Before Vernon could begin his prepared monologue about quarterly reports and market share, Sebastian politely but firmly interrupted, effectively hijacking the conversation before it began.
"Mr. Dursley, I must apologize for the necessary breach of protocol," Sebastian said, his voice retaining that disconcerting, velvet smoothness. "However, I must adhere to corporate standards of due diligence."
Vernon sputtered. "Due… due diligence, sir? Oh, of course, the financial forecast is ready—I have charts—I can bring the projections…"
Sebastian raised a manicured hand, stopping him. "I'm referring to the human resources component. Company records—which, I assure you, are extraordinarily detailed—indicate that your household currently houses four individuals, though only three are currently present in the immediate operational zone."
He gave Vernon a level, unblinking look. "Mr. Dursley, as the primary stakeholder, I find a simple matter of basic courtesy to be essential. We have travelled a considerable distance. I insist on meeting every resident. We need to acknowledge the fourth member of your domestic 'team,' if you will. Please, call your nephew to join us."
Vernon's entire body seemed to deflate, his skin turning a sickly shade of purple. This was not the script. This was a direct, impossible challenge. He couldn't refuse the primary shareholder, but he couldn't reveal Harry—the walking symbol of everything Vernon despised and feared—either.
"My nephew, Harry," Vernon stammered, frantically wiping his brow. "He is… he's quite shy. A little… unwell perhaps? A headache, terrible stomach cramps. I was just tucking him in. Perhaps it's best if he rested."
Sebastian's smile did not waver, but his eyes conveyed a quiet, lethal disappointment.
"Mr. Dursley, I pride myself on transparency. An employee who hides family members immediately raises concerns regarding honesty and integrity. I only require a moment. Please, let us simply exchange greetings. I will consider it a sign of good faith, and a necessary pre-requisite for our conversation regarding the General Manager's title."
The mention of the title was the final, devastating blow. Vernon, trapped, defeated, and internally screaming, hauled himself to his feet.
"Very well. I will… retrieve him," he managed, retreating toward the stairs. "Penny, keep the conversation flowing! Discuss the immaculate garden, the local crime rates—anything conventional!"
Petunia, however, was no longer focused on the garden. She was staring at Mia, an awful realization clicking into place, the years of self-deception crumbling under the weight of Mia's striking, non-Muggle beauty. The realization wasn't about Mia, but who Mia was with.
Vernon returned moments later, practically dragging Harry by the back of his shirt collar. Harry, dizzy from his uncle's frantic, whispered instructions—"Smile at precisely 12 degrees! Don't mention the word 'normal' but constantly project it! Cover the scar, you idiot!"—stumbled into the living room.
He stood blinking in the harsh light, his worn clothes contrasting starkly with the room's expensive, polished sheen. His messy black hair flopped forward, failing entirely to hide the raw, livid shape of the lightning scar.
Sebastian and Mia rose simultaneously. Sebastian's eyes locked immediately onto the scar, then met Harry's startlingly bright, melancholy green eyes—Lily Potter's eyes.
Harry braced himself, ready to mumble the required, complex greeting about it being an "honor to see such corporate excellence."
But the man on the sofa simply waved his hand—a gentle, dismissive gesture that swept away Vernon's entire, rehearsed script.
Sebastian's voice was clear, warm, and possessed a magical resonance that seemed to cut straight through the mundane soundproofing of Number 4 Privet Drive.
"Hello, Harry Potter. We've come a very long way to see you."