It had been almost ten years since the Dursleys had woken up to discover their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive remained nearly unchanged. Its hedges remained neatly cut, its paths immaculate, and its silence kept ideal—except for the odd loud voice echoing from Number Four.
Harry Potter had been struggling under the Dursleys' roof for as long as he could remember. Every day blended into the next, burdened by visibility, scolding, and housekeeping. He wasn't loudly hated; rather, he was silently forgotten and dismissed in the most courteous, suburban manner.
Conversely, Elian Vale had grown up encircled by wealth during those same ten years, which would entice practically anyone. Not him, though.
Styled perfectly but bearing a natural, defiant volume that resisted full control, Elian had thick, wavy black hair. His skin was bright and warm, which was a contrast to the tiredness sometimes seen in his eyes. His nose held round, black-rimmed spectacles, which framed eyes that sparkled with intelligence but also seemed always a little too weary for someone his age. As though he were always a few steps ahead in a game no one else understood they were playing, his face sported a confident, sarcastic charm enhanced by a little, knowing smirk.
One Sunday morning in Golden Valley, the sun rose above the neighboring hills, scattering golden light all over the land, warming roofs, brushing windows, and waking up flowers from their sleep. It left one area unaffected, though.
Sitting at the edge of the valley, the Vale family sat in a strange pocket of darkness as though even sunlight paused before getting too near. The tall bungalow maintained separation from its surroundings, not due to majesty but rather distance, like a painting may be maintained behind glass—seen, appreciated, but never touched.
Albert Vale had become one of the most remarkable figures in the Ministry in recent years,he was a man in his late thirties,carries authority like a second skin.His dark hair was neatly parted, with a faint streaks of silver at the temples.His jaw was strong,his cheekbones angular.He stands tall and lean, with shoulders squared.His eyes were cold blue and noticeably tired—respected by the most powerful witches and wizards in the country.
All except one.
His name was Elian Vale.
Yes—his own son.
Elian was far too calculated and sharp-tongued for his age. Whenever Albert attempted to assert control—through lectures or parental authority—Elian would find a loophole in his words and twist it back at him with surgical precision.
Whenever he got the chance to mock the Ministry in Albert's presence, he never let it slip. He doubled down—relentlessly—until Albert could no longer maintain the mask of a composed, respectable father. That was when he would snap, grounding Elian not like a parent, but like a dictator furious at being questioned.
One day, when a few Ministry officials arrived at the Vale household to question Albert about a group of dark wizards he'd recently captured, Elian was just stepping out, dressed for his Muggle school. (It had taken weeks of relentless pranks and mocking jabs before Albert begrudgingly gave in to that request.)
As Elian passed the drawing room, Albert called out sternly,
"Elian, these are my colleagues from the Ministry of Magic and—"
"Oh." Elian cut in, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Vale, but I believe I'm still too young to be touched by bureaucracy."
Though he maintained his cool behind that piercing, chilly stare, Albert was obviously humiliated. Meanwhile, the ministry employees were split between frowns and lifted brows—half furious, half astonished an eleven-year-old could speak with such nerve and accuracy.
Stephen walked forward with a bow and a sorry voice before Albert could lash back or smooth things over.
He said quickly, "My deepest apologies, Master Albert. But young Master Elian is running late for school. Muggles, as you know, maintain extremely unforgiving schedules. He made a tight smile to the officials and said, "I will make sure he never uses such language again."
Leaving the drawing room air cooler than it had been when they came, he lightly grasped Elian's wrist and dashed out the front door.
As Elian lay lazily on his bed that Sunday morning, sunlight barely reached through the tall windows of his bedroom. Apart from the occasional creaking of aging timbers and the far-off hooting of owls outside, the house was quiet. Next to him was a stack of grimy Daily Prophet copies he had borrowed, or rather taken, from the family archives.
He skipped over politics, Quidditch scores, and Ministry adjustments as he flicked through the delicate pages until a bleached-out headline struck his attention:
He Who Should Not Be Named Lost to a Child.
His attention tightened.
Underneath the striking lettering, the piece alluded to Harry Potter, sometimes known as the Boy Who Lived.
Elian carefully perused it. Twice.
Once more then. Twice extra.
"Even infants aren't safe from this so-called magical world," Elian muttered, somewhere between a laugh and a sneer.
He stood up slowly, stretching the stiffness out of his arms before strolling over to the old clock on his wall. Without much thought, he snapped his fingers. The hands broke clean off. A quiet clatter. He didn't even flinch.
"I wonder how that Harry Potter felt… being turned into a symbol before anyone even saw him as a kid."He said voice tired and laced with empathy.