The door still had that small window in the center, revealing a pair of familiar eyes.
Just like it had years ago.
"Magic," Dudley said, giving the password.
The door swung open once more.
As expected, the familiar stench hit him—a smell that could rival a troll's odor in its own unique way.
When the servant inside saw Dudley's familiar attire, they froze, then shouted excitedly, calling for their companions.
Soon, the Squib spokesperson from their past dealings came rushing out of a room, hurrying to greet Dudley personally.
"Honored Mr. Grug, it's been far too long since you've visited," they said, their tone humble and respectful.
"Is there an issue with the magical materials?"
Since starting at Hogwarts, Dudley's need for potion ingredients had dropped significantly, so his transactions with the Squibs had dwindled.
After all, he could source most things himself now. No need to go through middlemen. Dudley had money, but it wasn't like Galleons grew on trees.
This had cost the Squibs a valuable income stream.
Earning a living wasn't easy for Squibs, and their options were limited.
It had been nearly six months since Dudley last contacted them.
Instead of answering right away, Dudley snapped his fingers. The foul air around them cleared instantly, leaving the space fresh.
The casual display of wandless magic stunned the Squibs.
Wandless casting was something only the most powerful wizards could manage.
So, Mr. Grug was a wizard of immense power.
"There's no issue with the materials," Dudley said.
The Squibs visibly relaxed at his words.
A powerful wizard wasn't someone they could afford to offend.
If he were a dark wizard, a single spell could wipe them all out without breaking a sweat.
"The reason I haven't come by often is that I don't need as many materials anymore," Dudley continued.
His next words sent a chill through the group.
As their biggest client for potion ingredients—and a generous one at that—Dudley's business had significantly improved their meager lives. He was practically their patron.
If he no longer needed their materials, it wasn't just losing a client.
It meant slipping back to the days of scraping by, half-starved.
No one wanted to return to that life, but they were powerless against someone like Dudley.
"That's… truly regrettable, honored Mr. Grug," the lead Squib said, voice heavy with resignation.
No matter how much they hated it, they had no choice but to accept it.
Squibs had their survival rules set from the start.
They were the dregs of the wizarding world, outcasts in the Muggle world, rejected by both.
Unable to fit into wizarding society or live normally among Muggles, they existed in the cracks.
"While I don't need your materials anymore, I think we still have room to work together. That's the second reason I'm here," Dudley said.
He pulled out a small wooden stick and placed it in front of the Squibs, addressing the leader. "Take it. Cast a spell."
The lead Squib gave a bitter smile and shook their head.
"Sir, I'm a Squib. I can't cast any magic."
Once, they'd dreamed of casting even the smallest spell. But as their peers went off to magical schools, they stayed behind, showing no signs of magic—no power, no surges, just ordinary, like a Muggle.
Their parents had argued over it endlessly, eventually leaving home.
Alone, they'd huddled under blankets, telling themselves they were just a late bloomer, that they'd become a wizard someday.
Year after year, they grew from an innocent child to an adult.
Reality slapped them hard. They weren't a late bloomer—they'd never bloom at all.
After all these years, they'd come to terms with being a Squib.
"I said, 'Take it and cast a spell.' I won't repeat myself a third time," Dudley said firmly.
Faced with someone who could cast wandlessly, the Squibs didn't dare resist.
With a wry smile, the lead Squib, named Clifford, picked up the stick and pointed it lazily at a nearby wall. "Aguamenti," they said, half-hearted.
It was the most basic spell, simple and straightforward.
Once, they might have held a flicker of hope. Now, they were numb.
Failure after failure, disappointment after disappointment, nothing gained.
Squibs couldn't cast magic. That was an ironclad rule.
It was their fate.
"Sir, I really can't—" Clifford started, but then nearly bit their tongue off.
A miracle happened.
A thin stream of water shot from the wand's tip, arcing through the air and splashing against the wall, leaving a wet stain. The stream was weak, like a squirt gun, but it was undeniably real.
"You… I… it… how?!" Clifford stammered, pointing at Dudley, then themselves, then the wand, unable to form a coherent sentence.
"I cast magic?"
Magic. Actual magic!
Not just Clifford, but the surrounding Squibs nearly popped their eyes out.
"What's going on? Did Clifford just become a wizard?"
"No, if he were a wizard, he'd have gone to a magical school."
"He's still a Squib, like us."
All eyes turned to the small, wand-like stick in Clifford's hand.
Their breathing grew heavy.
After years of scraping by, they instantly knew the ability to cast magic was tied to that wand.
That special wand let them cast spells.
At least, it let Clifford cast.
"Clifford, try another!" someone shouted eagerly from the crowd.
Once could be a fluke. Twice?
And if twice was a fluke, what about three times?
Clifford stood straighter, no longer half-hearted. With precise movements and a clear voice, they waved the wand.
"Lumos!"
The motion was flawless, the incantation perfect—honed by years of practice, even if it had never worked.
Even Aurors at the Ministry might not match that precision.
The Squibs watched, holding their breath, not daring to make a sound.
And they weren't disappointed.
A faint glow flickered from Clifford's wand tip.
It was dim, but it lit a spark of hope in the Squibs' hearts.
Only a Squib could understand the desperate, marginalized lives they led at the bottom of the wizarding world.