Six months passed.
Not the kind worth looking back on.
More like time that pushed you forward, never allowing you to stop and confirm where you stood.
Life returned to the rhythm it was supposed to have.
Things at the company were improving.
Not overnight success, but the kind of stability that finally lets a man straighten his back—
projects moving forward, payments arriving on time, hesitant partnerships beginning to turn into signed agreements.
The tone in meetings changed as well.
No longer what if we fail, but what comes next.
It was a subtle shift.
Not success.
Just the absence of constant readiness for collapse.
For the first time, I allowed myself to think
that maybe we had made it through.
That thought unsettled me.
Not because I feared losing it,
but because I knew—
things never end just as you regain your footing.
Petunia reorganized the house.
Furniture returned to its places, drawers emptied and refilled.
She did it quietly, as if following a routine she already knew by heart.
Dudley grew quickly.
Trousers shortened, sleeves revealed wrists.
New clothes arrived; old ones were folded into boxes.
We were living our lives.
At least, that was how it looked.
No one brought up that period anymore.
No arguments, no deliberate avoidance.
Just a quiet agreement to remove certain topics from the dinner table.
Harry's things were never thrown away.
Not out of sentiment.
But because I didn't know what to do with them.
The small room stayed sealed.
The door closed, the key still there.
The suitcase rested in the corner, books stacked neatly,
as if they might be opened again at any moment.
No one suggested clearing it out.
No one objected.
We all pretended
this was temporary.
I told myself it was caution.
Not attachment.
If something happened again—
at least everything would still be where it belonged.
It was the only way I could think of
to avoid making a mistake.
The doorbell rang while I was reading the paper.
Not rushed.
Measured.
Polite.
My stomach sank.
That kind of knock never belonged to salesmen.
I opened the door and saw him.
He stood there, well dressed, calm.
Not a visitor—
more like someone here to confirm something already decided.
"Long time no see," he said. "Do you remember me?"
I looked at him and nodded.
"How could I forget," I said. "A."
He smiled, but there was no small talk in it.
More like confirmation that I was still on the list.
I let him in.
Not out of courtesy,
but because I had learned when refusal wasn't an option.
He sat in the living room without looking around,
as if everything here had already been documented.
"The past six months have been relatively stable," he said.
Not a question.
A review.
"We've tried not to complicate things," I said.
"It shows," he replied.
He paused, choosing his words.
"I'm here to notify you."
I didn't respond.
"I'll be returning during the holidays."
I looked up.
"No," I said.
Not an emotional reaction.
A decision.
"You took him away yourselves," I said. "We cooperated once already. For us, this is over."
A looked at me without replying right away.
"This is a notification," he said.
"Not a request."
"You can't do this," I said. "This isn't a short-term arrangement. You know exactly what it means."
I heard my own voice echo in the living room.
Not loud.
Clear.
He nodded.
"That's precisely why," he said, "we need your cooperation."
In that moment, I realized—
in his assessment,
we weren't victims.
We were conditions.
"I can't agree," I said.
A stood up.
"You don't need to," he said.
"You'll be informed in advance."
"You just need to be ready."
The words shut something.
Not opening a door—
closing it.
I fell silent.
Not because I was convinced,
but because I could see it clearly now—
opposition
was not among the available options.
"If he—" I hesitated. "If he uses magic to hurt us?"
It was the first time in six months
I'd placed the question on the table.
He didn't hesitate.
"He isn't that kind of person," he said.
Then, more lightly:
"You know that."
The words unsettled me.
Not reassurance.
More like being assumed into a shared judgment.
"I need a guarantee," I said.
Not a plea.
A test.
He looked at me.
No threat in his eyes—
yet enough for me to understand
I was standing at the edge of a negotiation I could not win.
"Pushing this further," he said, "won't look good for you."
He turned toward the door, as if everything necessary had been said.
Just before he reached it, I spoke.
"I don't know why it has to be us," I said.
He stopped.
"But you don't really have another choice, do you?"
He turned back.
I didn't step away.
"I don't understand magic," I said. "But I understand how the world works. Magic is the same—just a different name."
This wasn't an accusation.
It was deduction.
"If there were a cleaner solution, you'd have used it already," I went on.
"The fact that you didn't erase our memories says enough."
The room stayed quiet for a few seconds.
He studied me, his gaze more measured now.
"Keep things the way they are," he said, his tone returning to neutral.
"That's what's best for you."
No promises.
Only boundaries.
The door closed.
The living room fell silent again.
I stood there for a long moment.
And finally, I understood—
this wasn't trust.
It wasn't an explanation.
It was default.
The assumption that we would remain where we were,
cause no disruptions,
ask no questions.
I walked to the sealed room and stopped.
The door was still closed.
Everything inside remained exactly as it had been.
And for the first time, I understood clearly:
this wasn't waiting.
It was being placed.