The gala invitation arrived at Vernon's office on a Tuesday morning, tucked into a cream-colored envelope sealed with gold wax. The embossed crest of the Fairchild Foundation gleamed at the top, its golden star catching the light as if daring him to ignore it.
Vernon slit the letter open with a pompous flourish, already imagining something about golf or recognition for his "excellent sales record." This, he could brag about. This, he could lord over Smeltings parents and golf buddies alike.
But as he read, his face drained from its usual beetroot-red to a sickly gray.
It is with great pride that we announce your selection as the recipient of the Fairchild Award for Guardianship… You, your wife, and your son are hereby invited to attend our upcoming Gala of Guardians, where the award will be presented before esteemed colleagues and dignitaries. Your nephews, of course, will be the evening's special guests of honor, for it is their presence that reflects the very heart of this recognition.
The paper trembled in his hand.
Across the office floor, his colleagues noticed instantly.
"Ho, quite the honor, Dursley!" said Perkins from Accounts, peering over his cubicle wall. "Didn't know you had nephews! Been hiding them from us?"
"Not hiding!" Vernon snapped, his voice too loud. "Just—modest about it, that's all." His mustache twitched with strain, but he forced a laugh that sounded more like a cough.
By lunch, the news was on the company bulletin board. By tea, his coworkers were calling him "Guardian of the Year" and slapping his back so often he could barely keep upright.
It was hell.
The Fury at Home
That evening, the storm broke.
"They've trapped me!" Vernon roared the moment he slammed through the front door. His face was purple, his tie askew, and the letter was clutched in his fist like an enemy he meant to strangle. "Public award! Special guests! Every blasted eye in that room will be on us!"
Harry and Void froze at the kitchen table, where Petunia had set them to polishing Dudley's shoes until they gleamed. The boys exchanged a glance, silent but taut with fear. Shadow stirred faintly beneath Void's sleeve, tongue flicking the air, tasting Vernon's rage.
"If they see so much as a bruise," Vernon bellowed, pacing like a bull across the living room, "if they suspect for one second that things aren't perfect here—my reputation will be ruined! Years of work! Gone, because of you two freaks!"
His eyes swept the room, frantic, until they locked on the neat row of family photographs along the wall. Birthdays. Christmases. Dudley's first day at Smeltings. The perfect family, smiling in perfect frames.
And then there was that one.
The only photograph Vernon had ever allowed with the other two in it. No Dudley. No Petunia. Just Harry and Void, standing awkwardly in the back garden one summer. Harry's hair had stuck up in tufts, his shirt hanging too big on his thin frame. Void had been still and straight, his dark eyes too steady for a child. Petunia had taken it herself, under Vernon's order—one photo, just one, "for proof" should anyone ever ask. He hated it, but he had tolerated it.
Now, under his furious glare, it looked like betrayal.
"You think you make me look generous?" Vernon snarled, ripping the frame from the wall. "You make me look weak!"
"Uncle—" Harry started, panic sparking, but the words cut off in his throat as Vernon raised the frame high.
With a violent swing, Vernon smashed it at their feet. Glass splintered across the carpet, scattering like sharp snowflakes.
"Clean it up!" he barked. His mustache quivered with spit as he jabbed a finger at them. "Clean it and throw it away! I never want to see your faces on my walls again!"
Petunia stiffened at the sink, her hands tightening around a dishcloth. For a heartbeat, her knuckles went white, but she said nothing. Dudley smirked from the sofa, cheeks bulging with cake.
Harry dropped to his knees, heart hammering, and began scooping up the shards with trembling hands. "Yes, Uncle Vernon," he whispered.
Void knelt beside him, sweeping glass into a dustpan with slow, deliberate motions. His silence was heavier than words.
When Vernon's back was turned, Harry slid the photograph—cracked down one side but whole—beneath his shirt, pressing it against his chest.
It was the only picture he had where Void stood beside him—his cousin, his shield, his brother in all but name. Harry would not let it be lost.
Void's gaze flicked toward him. He saw the faint bulge beneath the fabric, the way Harry's hand pressed protectively over it. He said nothing, but his eyes lingered just long enough to speak a silent truth: Keep it.
Masks in Motion
The next few days turned into rehearsals for survival.
Petunia dragged Harry into the kitchen each morning, combing his fringe down over the lightning scar until it nearly covered his eyes. "Head down. Eyes lowered. Speak only when spoken to," she muttered, hands shaking though her voice stayed sharp. "If anyone asks, you're shy. If anyone presses, you're quiet."
Harry bit his lip and nodded.
She smoothed Void's straight dark hair next, her hands faltering as the ink-like strands slipped through her fingers. They were too much like Amara's—her sister's, sharp and protective. Petunia's throat tightened, but she pressed his fringe down anyway, muttering, "And you—don't look at people with those eyes. Keep them lowered. Keep… that thing"—her eyes flicked at his sleeve—"hidden. Always."
Void said nothing. Shadow hissed softly, flicking its tongue as though mocking the tension.
Meals were strained rituals. Vernon ranted about appearances, Dudley preened in his new tuxedo, and Harry and Void sat silently in ill-fitting cast-offs, their collars itchy and stiff. Petunia cooked elaborate dishes, only to slip leftovers into napkins after dark, passing them up the attic ladder with whispers of "Hide it. He mustn't know."
In the attic, Harry stowed the food beneath a loose floorboard beside the photograph. At night, he traced the cracked edge with his thumb. "At least we look like family in this one," he murmured.
Void, sitting cross-legged with Shadow curled around his wrist, placed a hand lightly on Harry's shoulder. He didn't answer, but his presence said enough.
Vernon's Storm
Every evening, Vernon thundered around the house like a man cornered.
"Do you understand what this means?" he shouted one night, pacing so hard the floorboards rattled. "Every eye in that hall will be on us! If either of you so much as sneeze wrong, I'll be finished. Finished!"
Harry and Void sat quietly at the table while Petunia hemmed trousers with sharp, nervous motions. Dudley demanded second helpings of pudding, oblivious.
Vernon leaned down, jabbing a thick finger into the air between them. "You'll keep quiet. You'll stay out of sight unless called. And you'll smile if you have to, do you hear me? Smile!"
Harry nodded quickly, his throat tight. Void didn't move. Shadow tightened around his wrist, his defiance silent but unflinching.
The Night of the Gala
The night came at last.
A hired car gleamed at the curb, polished black under the streetlamps. Vernon fussed with his tie, sweating through his jacket. Petunia's smile was brittle as spun glass. Dudley whined about pudding, tugging at his new tuxedo.
Harry and Void sat pressed together in the back, their suits too big, collars stiff. Harry tugged nervously at his sleeves. Void rested still and silent, Shadow coiled and hidden beneath his jacket.
The Fairchild Foundation's hall loomed ahead, banners of deep blue and gold fluttering proudly above marble steps. "Gala of Guardians – Celebrating Duty, Family, and the Children of Tomorrow."
Cameras flashed as the Dursleys stepped out.
"This way, Mr. Dursley!" a reporter called. "A word about your nephews?"
Vernon's smile snapped into place, stiff and unnatural. His grip clamped down on Harry's shoulder so hard it hurt, shoving him forward. Petunia pushed Void along behind, trying to make him smaller, less visible.
For the first time, Harry and Void stood revealed to the world.
Gasps rippled through the small crowd. Harry, pale and thin, clutched his oversized jacket, his fringe falling over his scar. Void, though drowning in a blazer far too large, carried himself with strange, quiet poise. His eyes stayed lowered, just as Petunia had drilled, yet still they drew glances.
"Smile," Vernon hissed through clenched teeth. "Smile, blast you!"
Augustus Fairchild
Inside, chandeliers blazed like constellations across the marble floor. Children darted between tables, their laughter mingling with the clink of glasses and warm conversation.
At the center stood Augustus Fairchild.
Silver-haired, upright, his cane more ornament than necessity, his presence drew the eye without effort. His voice carried like a warm tide as he addressed the hall.
"Ah," he said, as the Dursleys approached. "The man of the hour."
Vernon boomed with forced laughter, guiding Petunia and Dudley forward. But Augustus's gaze had already shifted—landing on the two boys in their ill-fitting suits.
Harry swallowed hard, feeling stripped bare.
Void's eyes rose just enough to meet the man's. For a single heartbeat, Augustus faltered—softened—then sharpened again, as though he had expected this moment all along.
"The nephews," Augustus declared, his voice rich with meaning. "The children who make this honor possible."
A hush fell across the nearest tables. Heads turned. Glasses stilled.
Vernon's smile wavered.
Harry's breath caught.
And Void stood in silence, Shadow coiled close and hidden, as the world finally began to see them.