Morning came grey and heavy.
Petunia Dursley stood in her small kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair already falling out of its clip as she moved with sharp, restless purpose. For once, she wasn't frying Vernon's usual breakfast. She didn't even look at the bacon in the fridge.
Her attention—every ounce of it—was on the boys.
Dudley was in his highchair, pudgy fists banging impatiently. Beside him, little Harry, perched on a couple phone books so he could reach the table, blinked up at her with wide green eyes.
She had almost nothing healthy in the house—Vernon didn't believe in "rabbit food"—but she pieced together what she could: unsweetened applesauce, soft banana slices, a bit of watered-down yogurt.
"Here you go, sweetheart," she murmured, placing the bowl before Harry first. That alone was rebellion. That alone would've earned a snarl from Vernon. Before placing an identical bowl in front of Dudley, who looked at her with mild betrayal for the healthy spread in front of him. But his gaze softened when she kissed the top of his head.
Harry's small face lit up. A flutter—warm, not quite words, but communication—brushed her mind. Gratitude. And hope so fragile it made her throat tighten.
She smiled back.
For him, she could bear anything.
---
The kitchen door swung open hard enough to rattle the frame.
Vernon stood there in his neatly pressed grey suit, red-faced already from the mere existence of a morning. "Petunia—why in—WHERE'S MY BREAKFAST?"
His beady eyes swept the kitchen, landing on the bowls, the fruit, the focused attention on Harry Potter instead of on him.
Petunia stiffened.
Harry startled at the booming voice—his spoon jerked—and a blob of applesauce arced through the air like a launched missile.
It splatted across Vernon's tie and fresh-pressed shirt.
The room froze.
Vernon's face went from purple to a shade Petunia had only ever seen on overripe eggplants.
"YOU—FILTHY—LITTLE—"
He stepped toward Harry, fist clenching, jaw grinding.
[Bond Surge: PROTECT]
Something inside Petunia snapped.
Not fear—never fear—not anymore.
Heat flooded her veins, a primal burn that felt older than magic, older than blood. Her vision sharpened. Sound muffled. Her body moved before she could think.
She stepped between Vernon and Harry, arms out, spine straight as steel.
The burning maternal surge centered in her chest like a star going nova.
[Guardian/Child Bond Response Triggered: PROTECT]
Behind her, Harry whimpered—and the air shimmered.
A faint glow—pale gold with tiny specks of starlight—flared around Harry and extended outward to wrap lightly around her legs, like a child clinging to a mother's skirt.
It wasn't strong. It wasn't even visible unless the light hit just right. But it hummed with something pure and instinctive.
Magic. Harry's magic.
[Micro-Shield Cast (unconscious)]
[Bond Strength +10%]
Petunia felt it—like a second skin, like a promise: 'I'll keep you safe, Auntie.'
Her breath caught.
Vernon took an involuntary half-step back.
The surge of protective instinct wasn't all.
Something clicked inside her mind—a soft tone only she could hear.
[System Recommendation: Passive Support Ability Available]
[Activate? → CULTURAL EMPATHY FILTER (Minor)]
She didn't consciously choose.
Her heart chose for her.
Yes.
The world shifted.
Not visually—emotionally.
Vernon's anger didn't hit her the way it usually did. Instead, she perceived it as… noise. A dull signal. A cultural mismatch. His blustering felt less threatening, less personal, more like the territorial display of a frightened, insecure creature.
Her fear dissolved.
Her clarity sharpened.
She stared at him—calm, steady, unflinching.
Vernon opened his mouth to roar again—but stopped.
Something in the room felt wrong to him. Not dangerous—but altered. As if the air itself disapproved of him.
He looked at Petunia—really looked—and for the first time in their marriage… he hesitated.
Her posture had changed. Her eyes were steady. There was no flinch, no appeasement, no fear.
And Harry Potter was glowing behind her. Vernon didn't see it fully—just flickers at the edge of sight—but it was enough to make his skin crawl.
"Petunia…" His voice wobbled. "What… what's going on here?"
Petunia, still blocking Harry with her whole body, lifted her chin.
"Breakfast is for the boys," she said quietly. "You can make your own today."
Vernon stared at her as if seeing a stranger.
Because he was.
Something had changed. And he could sense it. Not magically—but instinctually, deep in the primitive lizard-brain that warns a man when he is no longer the apex predator in his own home.
Without another word, he backed out of the kitchen.
The door closed.
Silence followed.
Petunia let out a shaky breath, checking on Dudley only to find him happily mashing up bananas (how often had a similar scene happened that he didn't even react) before she turned to Harry.
His little shield flickered, wavered, then faded like morning mist. But he was smiling—nervous, hopeful, trusting.
She gathered him into her arms, kissed his hair.
"It's all right, darling," she whispered. "I've got you. I promise."
And somewhere deep in the system, something warm pulsed in approval.