July 31, 1991.
No.
4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.
Thump, thump, thump!
Harry was jolted awake by a violent shudder.
The ceiling above him vibrated, causing dust to spill through the gaps in the floorboards.
It cascaded onto his old pillow and settled on the tip of his nose.
Harry wiggled his nose.
Before he could even open his eyes, a second wave of tremors shook the cupboard.
This time, it was accompanied by a dull, heavy thud—someone was jumping up and down, stomping on the floor directly upstairs.
It was Dudley.
Harry knew why his cousin was awake so early today.
Aunt Petunia had informed them yesterday that a relative they hadn’t been in touch with for a very long time was coming to visit.
In Dudley’s mind, a visiting relative meant a feast of good food and, quite possibly, presents.
Naturally, he was thrilled.
But what did any of that have to do with Harry?
In this house, he was never invited to participate in such festivities.
All he ever had to do was show his face at the beginning—just enough to display a bare minimum of respect to the guest.
Harry wanted nothing more than to pull the blanket over his head, ignore the racket outside, and fall back asleep.
Unfortunately, that was a pipe dream.
As long as Harry didn’t show up promptly, the noise wouldn’t stop.
Harry rolled over and sat up, cracking the back of his head against the low ceiling of the cupboard under the stairs.
Rubbing his sore head, he reached out in the faint light filtering through the crack in the door, feeling around for his glasses before pulling on his clothes.
He did it all with a practiced efficiency—so practiced it was almost heartbreaking.
It really is true, Harry thought wryly.
A mother’s love is irreplaceable, and a motherless child is just a weed in the wind.
Once he was dressed, Harry pushed open the cupboard door.
His skinny, undersized frame allowed him to step out effortlessly, without having to duck or pull in his stomach like Dudley always had to.
Recalling the last time Dudley had gotten stuck in the doorway, Harry let out a sudden snort of laughter, his mood brightening considerably.
Besides, Harry remembered that today was a special day.
That thought alone was enough to keep him in high spirits all day long.
When he reached the living room, Aunt Petunia had already spread a lavish breakfast across the dining table.
The three Dursleys were sitting around it, sipping their milk.
“Good morning, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley,” Harry greeted them.
He pulled out a chair, sat down, and picked up a piece of bread to eat.
Seeing Harry act so nonchalantly, Uncle Dursley’s face flushed with anger, but Aunt Petunia silenced him with a single sharp look.
Vernon opened his mouth to say something, but seeing his wife shake her head, he settled for giving Harry a fierce glare.
Turning back to his son, his angry expression instantly transformed into a beaming smile.
Harry paid them no mind.
He simply picked up his pace, having already caught Dudley eyeing the food on his plate.
Finished with his breakfast, Harry was the first to stand, reaching out to clear the table.
This was how his daily chores usually began.
“Harry.” Aunt Petunia called out, stopping him in his tracks.
She hesitated for a moment before speaking.
“You don’t have to do that today.
I’ll clean up later.” The moment those words left her mouth, a heavy silence fell over the room.
Harry looked up at his aunt, his eyes wide with confusion.
Vernon and Dudley were equally baffled, staring at Petunia in disbelief.
Perhaps stung by the sheer bewilderment in Harry’s emerald-green eyes, Aunt Petunia averted her gaze.
Avoiding his eyes, she stood up in a flurry of nervous energy and bustled off into the kitchen.
The second Petunia left, Dudley slung an arm over Harry’s shoulder, pressing down with heavy force.
The sudden pain snapped Harry out of his daze.
“Hey, Harry.
Do you think my mum’s finally decided to throw you out?” Dudley sneered.
“Where do you think you’ll go?
Some orphanage?
How about Saint Mary’s down the street?
I heard the director there is a total old freak!” “Heheh!” The words hit Harry like a bolt from the blue, leaving him frozen where he stood.
He turned his head stiffly, his neck joints making a faint creak, and looked toward his aunt, who was already busy in the kitchen.
Is Aunt Petunia really going to drive me out of here, just like Dudley said?
Harry couldn’t help thinking.
Her behavior just now had been extraordinarily strange.
Perhaps he had fantasized more than once about leaving this place—leaving this “home” he hated so much.
But now that the moment seemed to actually be arriving, Harry felt no joy at all.
There was only confusion and dread.
Though he hated to admit it, Harry knew that outside of the Dursleys, he didn’t have a single relative left in the world.
Only Uncle Dursley knew that this was entirely impossible.
If Petunia really intended to get rid of the brat, she would have discussed it with him beforehand.
Recalling what Petunia had said yesterday about a relative coming to visit, a rare look of deep thought appeared on Vernon’s fat face.
And Petunia’s next words only confirmed his suspicion.
“Dudley, sweetikins, don’t pick on your…
cousin!” Hearing his mother’s voice from the kitchen, Dudley looked as though he’d been struck by lightning.
His grip on Harry’s shoulder instinctively slackened.
In utter disbelief, he turned his neck stiffly, mirroring Harry’s earlier motion, and stared toward the kitchen.
Mum doesn’t love me anymore!
Dudley thought, horrified.
Harry, on the other hand, felt as though a surge of vital energy had been pumped back into him.
He came alive once more.
A wave of immense relief washed over him.
Taking advantage of Dudley’s distraction, he slipped out from under his cousin’s arm and looked excitedly at Uncle Vernon.
Sure enough, skilled as he was at reading the room, Harry saw no trace of excitement on his uncle’s face.
That made him all the more certain that Dudley’s words were nothing more than a wild guess.
Harry was sharp.
He knew that if they were truly sending him away, his uncle wouldn’t look like this.
Furthermore, he remembered the relative who was supposed to arrive today, and a wild, almost absurd thought popped into his head: Could this relative…
have something to do with me?
By ten in the morning, the Dursley family was sitting neatly arranged on the sofa.
Harry was sitting with them.
It was the very first time he had been allowed to sit in the living room as a member of the household to greet a visiting guest, and it made him feel intensely uncomfortable.
Yet, he wasn’t the strangest person among the four—that title belonged to Aunt Petunia.
Right now, her hair was styled up in an elegant bun, and she was wearing the fine dress Uncle Vernon had bought her for their tenth wedding anniversary.
She looked every bit the high-class lady dressed up for a formal occasion.
Even so, beneath the makeup on her face, it was easy to tell that her mind was far from calm.
Sorrow, longing, anticipation…
and perhaps, hidden deep beneath it all, a sliver of jealousy.
Harry couldn’t be entirely sure if he was reading her right.
Beside her, Uncle Vernon looked at his wife with deep concern, his large, meaty hand tightly gripping hers as if trying to offer her strength.
Cousin Dudley was squeezed into his little suit, sitting rigid and extraordinarily well-behaved.
This was Dudley’s one redeeming quality: in front of outsiders, he always managed to give his parents something to brag about.
Harry’s eyes darted between the three of them, taking in their expressions.
He had a strong feeling that today was going to be a very unusual day.
Knock, knock, knock!
A sudden rap at the door shattered the tense quiet, interrupting Harry’s thoughts.
Instinctively, he started to stand up, but immediately turned to look at his aunt.
Aunt Petunia’s entire body went rigid.
She tried to rise, but her knees buckled beneath her.
With a sharp gasp, she tumbled backward onto the sofa.
Fortunately, Uncle Vernon had been holding onto her, preventing her from suffering a humiliating fall.
Knock, knock, knock!
The rhythmic knocking sounded again.
The visitor outside seemed entirely certain that someone was inside.
Whew…
Feeling the steady warmth of her husband’s hand, Petunia took a deep, shaky breath, forcing herself to regain a semblance of composure before turning to Harry.
“Harry…
go open the door.” Without a word, Harry stepped toward the front entrance.
Knock, knock, knock!
As the third set of knocks echoed through the hall, Harry took a deep breath, placed his hand on the doorknob, and turned it firmly.
The door swung open.
Bright sunlight poured into the hallway, forcing Harry to squint.
A few seconds later, as his vision cleared, a young man appeared in his doorway.
The man stood on the concrete front step, backlit by the morning sun, his figure outlined in a sharp, dark silhouette.
He wore a crisp, tailored suit of dark gray—nothing like the bulky, tight-fitting jackets Mr.
Dursley wore.
This suit was impeccably cut with clean, elegant lines.
The collar of his white shirt was unbuttoned at the top, devoid of a tie, revealing a patch of sun-kissed skin.
He didn’t look old at all—perhaps around twenty.
His hair was a rich, dark brown, cut short so that it just brushed his eyebrows, giving him a softer, less aggressive appearance.
The man didn’t seem surprised to see Harry.
He simply looked down at him.
Harry’s head barely reached his chest, forcing the boy to tilt his chin up to look back.
The visitor lowered his gaze.
His eyes swept past Harry’s messy black hair, lingered briefly on the lightning-shaped scar, and finally rested on his eyes.
Their glances met and locked.
It was in that moment that Harry noticed the man possessed a pair of vivid, emerald-green eyes—the exact same shade as his own, deep as the night sky, instantly drawing him in.
Even stranger was the sudden, unexplainable ache that bloomed in Harry’s chest just looking at those eyes.
A feeling of profound, inexplicable longing.
The man seemed to realize this.
He gave Harry a playful wink, lifted the hand holding a neatly wrapped box, gave it a gentle shake, and smiled softly.
“Harry…
aren’t you going to invite me inside?” “Oh—sorry, sir!” Harry snapped out of his trance, a rare flush of embarrassment rising on his cheeks.
He stepped aside, reaching out to take the box from the man’s hand.
To his surprise, the young man didn’t hand it over.
Instead, he looked past Harry, deeper into the house.
“Not just yet, Harry.
It’s not time for your gift just yet.” Before Harry could process what he meant, the man had already brushed past him and stepped inside.
Harry froze in place, bewildered.
Then, a sudden realization hit him like a thunderclap—this man knew him.
He even knew his name!
From the living room, Aunt Petunia’s voice drifted over.
It sounded tight, stretched thin like a violin string drawn too tight: “Ian…?” The man named Ian paused and responded softly: “Sister.” The word was uttered gently, but it made Harry’s eyes widen in shock.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Sister?
He called Aunt Petunia “Sister”?!
Could it be…
As the incredible realization struck him, Harry’s heart began to race wildly.
He’s my…
uncle?