Life at Number Four, Privet Drive, had always been cruel, but something darker had entered its rhythm.
Each evening, Vernon Dursley set a glass before Void with the pomp of a man delivering punishment. Its contents were never the same twice.
The chalky white drink — thick and clinging, leaving a paste-like coating on his teeth and weighing down his limbs until his body felt heavy.
The cloudy green drink — faintly sweet at first, almost pleasant, but souring in the throat and leaving his thoughts slow, his tongue sluggish.
The dark drink like ink — bitter, metallic, clinging like ash, leaving his stomach clenched and his sharp instincts dulled.
Each glass chipped away at him piece by piece.
Harry sat rigid every night, fists knotted in his lap. He wanted to ask, What is it? Why do you make him drink this? But Vernon's glare crushed the words before they formed.
"It's from the Fairchild Foundation," Vernon lied with smug cheer. "They want you healthy. Strong. Presentable."
Void's dark eyes burned steady. He knew better. Yet he drank — because the one time he hesitated, Vernon's thick hand had crushed down on Harry's shoulder until the boy cried out.
"Drink," Vernon growled, "or your cousin pays the price."
And so Void drank.
Petunia's Fear
Petunia washed the glasses each night, her hands trembling. No matter how much she scrubbed, the tang clung to the rims — metallic, unnatural.
She remembered Amara's voice from years ago: "There are drinks that can heal, and drinks that can break you. You can't always tell by looking — only by what they do."
Now she saw it plainly. Void moved slower, his shoulders heavier. The boy's eyes still burned, but something in them fought against fog.
Each time she rinsed the sink, shame clawed up her throat. She wanted to shout at Vernon — What have you brought into this house? What are you doing to him? — but she bit her tongue until it bled.
If she spoke, Vernon would roar. If she spoke, Harry and Void would pay for it. If she spoke, the fragile order of Number Four would collapse.
And yet, every night as she set aside bread and fruit for the attic, she whispered to herself: You're no better than him, Petunia. Watching. Pretending. Coward.
The Seventh Glass
By the seventh evening, Void had already drunk six. His shoulders sagged, his voice caught, and his eyes lost some of their sharpness.
The final glass gleamed dark as ink.
Harry whispered, "Don't… please don't."
Void forced a thin smile. "If I don't, he'll hurt you."
Vernon's shadow loomed. "Drink it, boy! Every drop."
Void tipped the glass back. The liquid burned cold down his throat, his vision swimming. His hand gripped the table hard to steady himself.
Vernon's grin widened. "Good lad. That's obedience."
And then — a thunderous knock rattled the front door.
The Officers Arrive
Vernon stormed to the door, his face already mottling red. "WHO DARES—"
Two uniformed officers stood on the step, flanking Mr. Carter. Carter's hat was in his hand, his polite smile thin but his eyes sharp.
"Mr. Vernon Dursley," the taller officer said, "you are under investigation for child neglect and abuse. You and your wife will accompany us immediately. The children are to be placed in protective custody."
Vernon's face turned purple. "WHAT? Outrageous! I'm a respected man in this community! I don't neglect anyone—"
Carter stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "You'll have your chance to explain yourself, Mr. Dursley. But tonight, the boys are coming with me."
Behind Vernon, Harry clutched Void's sleeve. Void swayed, his eyes hazy, the last drink dragging him under.
Petunia's Breaking Point
Vernon roared, jabbing a finger in Carter's chest. "This is Foundation nonsense! Lies! You've no proof—"
Petunia's heart hammered. She could feel the words pressing at her lips, clawing to get out. Say it. Tell them. Tell someone.
But Vernon's glare seared into her — the glare she had lived under for years. If she spoke, she knew what would come: slammed doors, broken dishes, bruises hidden in sleeves.
Her hands twisted in her apron. Stay silent. Stay safe. Don't risk it.
And then she saw Harry. His small hand clutching Void's arm, his face pale with fear. She saw Void swaying, his dark eyes dulled by the poison Vernon had forced on him.
Amara's voice whispered in her mind: "Protect them, Pet. If I can't, you must."
Her throat burned. The words ripped free before she could stop them.
"There is proof."
The room froze.
Vernon swung around, eyes bulging. "Petunia—"
Her voice trembled but grew stronger. "I've seen it. He makes the boy drink something. Every night. Seven glasses this week. I wash them — they stink of metal, bitter and wrong. It's not medicine. It's not right."
"You lying cow!" Vernon bellowed, spittle flying. "You'd throw me to the wolves? You'd side with them?"
Her chin lifted, though her eyes filled with tears. "I should have spoken sooner. But I won't stay silent now. Not while Harry and Void are being poisoned in this house."
The officer nodded sharply. "That will be added to the record, Mrs. Dursley."
Vernon lunged, red-faced and roaring. The officers grabbed him, pinning his arms as handcuffs snapped shut. His shouts shook the walls.
Petunia sagged against the counter, tears spilling freely now. "I'm sorry," she whispered, so soft only she could hear. "I'm sorry, Amara. I should have done more."
The Removal
Carter himself gathered the boys, his voice gentler than they had ever heard it. "Come along, lads. It's time to go."
Harry scrambled up instantly, his small hands latching onto Void's sleeve like a lifeline. His voice trembled. "We're really leaving?"
"Yes," Carter said firmly, crouching so his eyes were level with theirs. "You're leaving. Tonight."
Harry's eyes widened, filling with relief and disbelief all at once. He clung tighter.
Void rose more slowly, his steps dragging as though each one carried the weight of iron shackles. His lips parted, as if to form words, but nothing came. His throat closed around the silence, his mind fogged by seven nights of Vernon's weird drinks.
Shadow shifted faintly beneath his sleeve, flicking its tongue as though to urge him forward.
Petunia stood in the doorway, her pale hands twisting against her apron. Her face was white as chalk, eyes wide, mouth working without sound. She wanted to call after them — forgive me, please forgive me, I should have spoken sooner — but no sound left her lips.
Harry glanced back once, just once, as Carter guided them out into the night. Petunia's eyes met his for a heartbeat, and in that look was something Harry could never forget: guilt, raw and heavy, fighting with a love she had never dared to show.
The door closed, and Number Four fell into silence without them.
The Foundation's Tests
The boys were taken to a Muggle clinic under the Foundation's oversight, bright with sterile lights and the low hum of machinery. Doctors moved briskly, their clipboards filled with neat lines of data, their faces carefully professional.
They examined the boys from top to bottom.
Blood tests. Urine samples. Reflexes tapped with little hammers. Heart rate monitors strapped to thin arms. Neurological checks with lights shone into eyes and whispered instructions to follow fingers.
Harry winced at every needle, clutching Void's hand whenever he could. Void endured quietly, his gaze steady though dulled at the edges, his answers coming a half-second too late.
When the results arrived, the refrain was always the same.
"Normal."
No poison. No drugs. No residue in the rinsed glasses Petunia had turned over.
Carter's patience snapped. His fist struck the edge of the desk hard enough to make the pens rattle. "Impossible! Look at him. The slowness, the fog — you can see it. You can see it."
The senior physician sighed, spreading his hands. "Mr. Carter, I've treated children who've been starved, beaten, even given narcotics in secret. In every case, there was something. But here — there's nothing. If he was given anything, it's gone now. Left no trace."
They tried again. More samples, more tests. Specialists brought in from London, sharper instruments, more precise scans.
Still nothing.
But not everything came back clean.
"Both boys are underweight," one of the pediatricians reported grimly, flipping through his notes. "But the younger one — Harry — shows fewer signs of long-term malnutrition than his cousin. His growth is stunted, yes, but he's holding on."
The doctor's eyes moved to Void, sitting rigid on the exam table. "This one, however… he's worse. Weight far below what it should be. Muscle tone poor. It looks like he's been giving up food, regularly."
Harry, sitting close, blurted before he could think. "He gives it to me." His cheeks went red, but he pressed on, clutching Void's arm. "When Aunt Petunia sneaks us things, Void always makes sure I eat first. Sometimes he doesn't eat at all."
The doctors exchanged looks, their pens scratching quickly across their charts.
Another physician, examining Void's arms and back, frowned deeply. "Multiple bruises, in various stages of healing. Some not treated properly — you can tell by the scar tissue. See here, along the ribs? That one should have been seen to weeks ago."
Harry's voice dropped, almost ashamed. "He steps in when Uncle Vernon's angry. He takes it… so I don't have to."
Carter closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening until the muscles jumped.
Void sat silently through it all, his eyes lowered but unyielding. When the doctors prodded a tender rib, he didn't flinch. When they pressed at the bruises, he stayed still, his only reaction a tightening of Shadow's coils under his sleeve.
Finally, one of the physicians leaned back, his voice heavy. "There's no chemical explanation for the boy's fog. But the malnutrition, the bruises, the pattern of neglect — those we can prove. He's endured far more than his cousin."
Carter looked at Void then, and for the first time spoke not as an investigator but as a man shaken. "He's carrying the weight for both of them."
Harry, still holding his cousin's arm, whispered fiercely, "He always has."
Void lifted his gaze then, just for a heartbeat. His eyes were tired, dulled by whatever Vernon had made him swallow, but beneath it, a steady flame still burned.
Augustus Fairchild
The oak-paneled office of Augustus Fairchild smelled faintly of polish and old parchment. His silver cane rested against the polished desk, his eyes sharp beneath their warmth as Carter paced the length of the carpet, file clutched in his hand.
When words no longer sufficed, Carter slapped the file down hard against the desk, the sound echoing through the chamber. "If not for this boy, Harry wouldn't have survived as he did."
Augustus's brows rose, but Carter pressed on, his voice fierce. "Every test came back clean. No trace of the drug. But the doctors found enough. Malnutrition. Old bruises left to heal without care. And not on both boys equally — Void took the brunt of it. He starved himself to feed Harry. He stepped between Harry and Vernon's fists. The medical notes are clear: Harry's body bears far fewer scars because Void absorbed them himself."
Augustus leaned forward, steepling his fingers, his gaze flicking toward the photographs clipped to the report. Small figures on an examination table, pale limbs, fading bruises that told a story words could barely touch.
"And it wasn't just the doctors," Carter added, quieter now but no less steady. "Petunia Dursley — the wife — finally spoke. Afraid, yes. Silent for too long, yes. But she admitted she knew. She washed the glasses. She smelled the residue. She couldn't tell us what was in them, but she knew they weren't medicine. She said the fear kept her from speaking… until she couldn't take it anymore."
He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. "Her testimony matches the boys' condition. Vernon forced Void to drink, night after night. If Void resisted, Harry paid the price. That's why he drank."
For a long moment, silence filled the office. Only the faint tick of the grandfather clock and the soft hiss of the fireplace broke it.
Augustus rose, leaning lightly on his cane. His gaze lingered on the file, then drifted toward the window where dusk was settling over London. "So. They tried to break him. They stripped him of food, of strength, of safety. And when they could not break him, they poisoned him instead. In part, they succeeded."
Carter's jaw clenched. "But not fully. Not yet."
Augustus turned back, his expression grim but resolute. "No. The boy still endures. The world will call him strange. Dangerous. They will see only stillness where there is survival. But mark me, Carter — Void is not broken. He is surviving."
Across the room, Void sat slumped in a chair, Harry pressed close at his side. Void's heavy-lidded eyes flickered open, dark and steady for just a heartbeat. Beneath his sleeve, Shadow stirred, flicking its tongue with a faint hiss.
Though his body was heavy and his thoughts blurred, one truth burned steady within him:
They had not won. Not yet.