Life at the Dursleys' was brutal—an unrelenting cycle of survival, fear, and quiet, hidden strength. From as far back as they could remember, Harry and Void lived under watchful, mistrustful eyes, trapped inside a house that was more prison than home. The walls of Number 4 Privet Drive closed in around them, filled with cold glances and even colder hearts. They moved through those rooms like ghosts—unseen, unwanted, and unwelcome. The house didn't shelter them; it shut them away. Yet, even in the bleakest, most forgotten corners of that suffocating place, something wild and stubborn refused to be crushed. Magic grew there, ragged and untamed, like weeds forcing their way through cracks in concrete.
Early Magical Mishaps
Magic came to them before they could even understand what it was—before they had words to name it or reasons to fear it. It clung to them like restless shadows, whispering secrets no one else could hear, making strange and inexplicable things happen around them. The magic was quiet, unpredictable, dangerous if it was noticed by the wrong eyes.
One afternoon in nursery school, Harry sat quietly among his classmates, trying to stay small and invisible while the teacher droned on about colors and shapes. The woman's dull gray wig sat stiff and lifeless on her head. Then, suddenly, impossibly, the wig flared bright—electric blue, vivid and shocking in the pale classroom light. The children burst into laughter, but the teacher's scream shattered the room like a breaking glass. She pointed at Harry and Void, her voice sharp and accusing. When Harry brought home the scathing note that day, Vernon read it with clenched teeth, nearly losing control of the car on the way home.
That night, Harry curled into the cramped cupboard beneath the stairs, wrapping himself in darkness. Tears slipped silently down his cheeks—he was sure he had done something unforgivable, that punishment would come for him in full. The fear pressed on him like a heavy, suffocating cloak. But before Vernon could strike, Void stepped forward. His voice was calm, steady, the kind of voice that didn't waver. He took the blame, saying he had imagined the wig turning blue—and somehow, that had made it happen. Vernon didn't question it. He simply raised his hand. Void didn't flinch.
Another time, Petunia's frustration found its outlet in their hair. Armed with blunt kitchen scissors, she snipped uneven tufts, muttering about their scruffy, unkempt appearance. The jagged cuts were a harsh mark of her irritation. But the next morning, their hair had grown back—thick, wild, exactly as it had been. Vernon's face burned red with rage, his hand reaching for Harry, ready to drag him by the collar. But Void moved without hesitation, stepping between his cousin and the furious man. "It was me," Void whispered softly, eyes steady. "I wished it back." Vernon never believed him—he never did—but that didn't matter. Void was easier to punish. He took the blows silently. Beneath the skin, faintly shimmering under each strike, magic flickered—a quiet shield unseen by all but one.
Then came the day of the roof—the day when the world tipped in a way only magic could explain.
Dudley and his gang had trapped Harry behind a dumpster at recess, their faces twisted with cruel delight. They wanted to hurt him, to make him disappear simply because he existed. Panic slammed into Harry's chest, icy fingers squeezing his breath away. He shut his eyes tight, wishing it all to end. When he opened them again, he was no longer on the ground. Instead, he stood on the cold, unforgiving roof of the school. The wind tugged at his clothes and whipped his hair, carrying away his breath in sharp, cold bursts. No ladder had carried him there. No one had helped him climb. It was sudden, inexplicable safety.
Moments later, Void appeared, having felt the pulse of wild magic rippling through the air—a raw, powerful energy only he could sense. He knew where Harry had gone before anyone else. Without asking questions, Void placed a steady hand on Harry's shoulder and whispered, "We'll say I pulled you up."
Void's magic was different from Harry's. It never burst forth in bright, blazing explosions. It simmered beneath the surface—his skin shimmering under angry fists, bruises fading faster than they should, a quiet warmth that filled the room when he whispered comfort to Harry in the dark. While Harry's magic flared wildly, untamed and raw, Void tried to hold his power tight, to keep it hidden. But magic—especially in children—never stays quiet for long.
In the stillness of the attic or the cramped darkness of the cupboard, they both knew something deep and wordless: they were different. The outside world punished that difference. But inside those walls—between whispered promises, stolen scraps of food, healing bruises, and endured punishments—they had each other. And that made all the difference.
Petunia's Secret
Petunia Dursley was no kind aunt—not to Harry, not to Void. She never stopped Vernon's raised hand. She never challenged Dudley's cruelty. But she was not heartless.
When Vernon and Dudley were away—on business trips, visiting Aunt Marge, or working in the garden—Petunia's gaze lingered on Void longer than she intended. In those rare quiet moments, her eyes softened. He reminded her of someone she hadn't seen in years.
Not Vernon.
Not Lily.
Amara—the older Twin sister of Lily. Quiet, sharp-eyed, fiercely protective.
Amara had never looked down on Petunia, even when the Hogwarts letters arrived and their parents poured all their love and pride into the magical girls. While Lily and Amara blossomed into shining stars, Petunia was left behind—forgotten, discarded like a cracked and broken ornament.
But Amara had always made time for her. Protected her from bullies. Secretly slipped sweets into her pockets. Listened when no one else would.
Now, Void carried that same presence—that focused calm, that unshakable strength. He reminded Petunia of her sister—not just because of the magic or the familiar eyes, but for the way he stood between Harry and danger. Calm, quiet, unflinching—the way Amara had stood for her. Void's eyes held that same fierce protection. Too familiar. Too much to ignore.
Petunia saw Amara in him—brilliant, fierce, the one who held her hand during fights, dried her tears, whispered stories under blankets late at night. Amara—the shield. The brave one.
And now, Void was the same. Always watching. Always stepping up. Always taking the blows meant for someone else.
It broke something inside Petunia.
She carried that guilt like sharp shards of glass in her chest—cutting, constant, impossible to speak aloud. She should have done more. Said something. But Vernon's presence filled the house with a fear so thick it was hard to breathe.
So she stayed silent.
But sometimes—when Vernon and Dudley were gone—she tried, in her own quiet, broken way. Leaving a clean rag for Void's cuts, slipping an extra slice of bread under the cupboard door. When Harry slept, she gently pressed salve to the bruises Vernon left behind.
Every time Void met her eyes—those eyes full of quiet understanding, so like Amara's—it felt like a wound she didn't deserve to carry. A wound made of love and loss, fear and hope, all tangled together in the same fragile place.