The ocean liner finally docked in London. The family didn't linger in a hotel. Altair had already arranged for them to buy a property right in the heart of the city—a spacious duplex on the third and fourth floors of No. 3 Wickham Court, Charing Cross Road.
Charing Cross Road. Another name that sent a quiet thrill through Julien. On the drive in, he'd already spotted the weathered, leaky sign squeezed between rows of old bookshops and record stores: The Leaky Cauldron.
None of them were big fans of city life. They all preferred the peaceful countryside of Bordeaux—the rolling vineyards, ancient oak trees, misty wine cellars at dawn. But the location was perfect for business.
Once they were settled, Altair dove straight into meetings with British distributors, preparing to bring Black Vine Estate wines into the UK market. Clara handled the household and helped with the business while finding time to reach out to Petunia.
She quickly connected with her distant cousin, Petunia Dursley, and arranged a visit two days later.
Those two days vanished in a blink. When everything else was finally in order, Clara took Julien to Madeleine's Patisserie—just down from the record shop—and bought an elegant gift box: cream puffs, raspberry truffles, and a rainbow assortment of macarons specially picked for kids. Then they drove out to Little Whinging in Surrey.
As the car left central London, the scenery shifted from bustling streets to quiet suburbs. Little Whinging was exactly the kind of painfully ordinary Muggle neighborhood described in the books.
The streets were spotless. Identical detached houses stood in perfect rows, every lawn trimmed with military precision, sunlight hitting the off-white walls at the same flawless angle on every single house.
It was the polar opposite of the winery in Bordeaux. Just as the books had said: so tidy it was almost suffocating. Even the rubbish bins stood at attention like soldiers on parade.
No cat would dare step out of line here, Julien thought. No wonder Harry only had spiders for friends growing up.
The car pulled up in front of a slightly faded house. The once-bright beige exterior had yellowed with age, but the lawn was immaculate—as if every blade of grass had been measured with a ruler. A few nameless plants dotted the yard. Though it wasn't flowering season, the garden was clearly tended with obsessive care. A small plaque by the door read: Dursley.
Clara turned off the engine and looked at her son.
"This is it. Petunia and Mr. Dursley should be inside."
Julien took a deep breath, steadying the flutter in his chest, and followed his mother out of the car.
Clara carried the pastry box and pressed the doorbell. The bright ding-dong rang out clearly in the quiet yard.
A moment later the door opened. A slightly plump woman with rosy cheeks appeared.
She wore a floral dress, her hair set in neat waves. Her eyes held the sharp, appraising look of a typical suburban housewife.
When she saw Clara, Petunia's face flashed with obvious surprise before she quickly smoothed it into a polite smile.
"Clara?!" Her voice rose, then dropped. "Twenty years… You look… hardly changed at all."
Her gaze then swept over Julien—expensive little suit, silver buttons, polite nod—and she instantly judged: respectable family, worth cultivating.
"Petunia, it's been so long," Clara replied warmly, gently guiding Julien forward. "This is my son, Julien Black. Julien, say hello to Aunt Petunia."
Julien looked up, meeting Petunia's eyes with perfect manners and gave a small, respectful nod.
"Hello, Aunt Petunia."
Even as a ten-year-old, his poise was flawless. His voice was clear and gentle, but his eyes quietly scanned the inside of the house.
He could hear the television playing, a somewhat gruff male voice, and… the very faint sound of someone walking on tiptoes upstairs.
Petunia's eyes lingered on him for a second. The surname "Black" didn't seem to register. She gave a slight nod and switched to a much warmer tone.
"Come in, it's cold out. Vernon! Clara's here—the one I told you about!"
She stepped aside to let them through and called into the house.
Julien followed his mother inside. The living room was simple and ordinary: dark velvet sofa, coffee table scattered with newspapers and a glass jar full of sweets. A Muggle comedy show blared on the television.
A large, heavyset man with a thick neck and meaty face rose from the sofa. Vernon Dursley. His loose shirt strained over his enormous belly.
Vernon offered Clara a courteous smile that didn't quite reach his eyes while mentally pricing her cashmere shawl.
"Mrs. Black, welcome. Petunia's told me about you."
His gaze shifted to Julien with the same appraising look.
"Dudley! Dudley! Come down!" Petunia called from the foot of the stairs. "We have guests! Aunt Clara and your cousin Julien are here!"
Heavy thump-thump-thump footsteps shook the staircase.
A smaller version of Vernon came bouncing down, making the stairs groan in protest.
His pale blond hair looked like faded straw, plastered damply against an unusually large forehead. The boy had a broad face with two small, sharp blue eyes narrowed from the effort of descending. His neck had almost disappeared, stretching the collar of his black rock-band T-shirt to its limit.
His expensive, spotless trainers slammed onto the floorboards with the confidence of someone who owned every inch of space he occupied.
When he finally reached the bottom, the entire room seemed to shrink.
Like his shrewd parents, Dudley's eyes first swept over Julien critically. Noticing the expensive suit and composed demeanor, a smile quickly spread across his face, squishing all his features together.
"So you're Cousin Julien," he said, sticking out a thick arm. "I'm Dudley."
Once everyone was seated, the adults launched into their own conversation. The moment they learned the Blacks had come to Britain to expand their wine business, Petunia and Vernon's enthusiasm kicked up several notches.
Meanwhile, Dudley led Julien to a corner of the living room.
"So last week's match—the offside against Arsenal was total robbery, the ref was blind…" Dudley waved his chubby arms around, nearly spitting on the lemon cake in front of him.
His small eyes stayed fixed on Julien with rare eagerness, clearly trying to impress.
The Dursleys were nothing if not sharp. One look at the well-dressed, well-spoken Julien and his elegant mother had been enough for them to exchange glances and silently agree: this was a relative worth keeping close.
Dudley had picked up the signal immediately and was pulling out every topic he knew from television and school bragging, desperately trying to sound worldly and refined.
"It was very controversial," Julien replied calmly, nodding along to the football talk. Then he smoothly steered the conversation toward boxing—mentioning a few famous fighters by name. Dudley's eyes lit up at once.
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