After the owl left, I held the letter in my hand without opening it.
Not out of hesitation.
Out of habit.
Letters like this were never good news.
Footsteps sounded upstairs.
The door opened a crack.
Harry stood there, staring at the envelope in my hand.
"Is that… for me?" he asked.
I hadn't answered yet when the door behind me opened.
Petunia stepped out, meaning to turn off the lights.
Her gaze shifted from the letter to Harry.
At that moment, I knew this letter would not be handled in private.
"Come in," I said.
We sat in the living room.
I opened the envelope without delay.
The letterhead was official.
The Ministry of Magic.
I read it aloud, exactly as written.
A warning.
A violation.
Use of magic outside school grounds.
Strict prohibition of further magic.
Severe consequences in case of repeat offense.
I finished reading and placed the letter on the table.
Harry spoke immediately.
"That wasn't me," he said. "I didn't use magic."
I looked at him.
"That doesn't matter," I said.
He froze.
"What matters," I continued, "is that they've warned you."
I stood up.
"Good," I said. "Now even they are on my side."
Petunia frowned slightly, as if she wanted to speak.
I raised a hand to stop her.
I turned back to Harry.
"Listen carefully," I said. "You are not allowed to use magic."
"If you cause trouble again,
you won't be going back to that school."
It was the first time I said going back so clearly.
He opened his mouth to argue.
"Back to your room," I said.
This was not a discussion.
He turned and went upstairs slowly.
When the door closed, I finally sat down.
The fear came afterward.
I picked up the letter again and read it once more.
This time, carefully.
The more I read, the clearer it became—
they did not care about what had actually happened.
They did not care who had performed the magic.
They did not care about context.
They certainly did not care about a child's living conditions in a Muggle household.
They cared only about results.
A violation.
That realization chilled me.
The magical world did not care whether Harry was treated well.
Only that he existed, remained alive, and did not cross certain lines.
That knowledge did not frighten me.
It steadied me.
If they did not care about his circumstances,
then I did not need to fear acting "too far."
I began to calculate.
If the contract from that night was truly gone,
what would happen?
Not immediate collapse.
Not instant dismissal.
The damage would come later.
It meant that in the next project, I would no longer be the safe choice.
That my superior would hesitate before trusting me again.
That I would need lower prices and safer proposals
to earn the same confidence.
This was not a single accident.
It was a label.
And if something like this happened again—
I wouldn't even be allowed to explain.
They wouldn't ask whether it was magic.
They wouldn't ask about anomalies.
They would only conclude one thing:
You can't control your life.
That was a consequence I could not accept.
I looked toward the closed door upstairs.
The answer was obvious.
If I did not establish complete control,
there would always be a next time.
This wasn't prejudice.
It was probability.
I followed the thought through.
If Harry was nothing more than a presence—
a coordinate, a marker—
then his value as an individual
might be far less than I had assumed.
That idea unsettled me.
Because if that were true,
then the leverage I thought I held
was meaningless.
But there was another conclusion just as clear.
Even if Harry was not the central figure in their plans,
he was not someone easily replaced.
If he were insignificant,
they would have taken him long ago.
No repeated letters.
No procedures.
No warnings.
The fact that he remained here
meant one thing—
He mattered.
And if he mattered,
then stability mattered.
And stability required cooperation.
In my world,
the final step of any process
was always the same.
The station.
As long as he could not return there,
they would have to come to me.
The next day, I had bars installed on the upstairs window.
Not temporary.
Permanent.
The locks were replaced.
His wand was confiscated and locked away.
Food portions were reduced.
Not cut off—
controlled.
Less strength meant calmer behavior.
It wasn't fair.
I knew that.
But when had this world ever been fair to me?
There was also something I did not say aloud.
He had managed to cause chaos at the most critical moment.
That alone meant he wasn't innocent.
This was discipline.
And management.
A lesson.
A boundary.
I sat in the kitchen, watching time pass.
I was no longer waiting for explanations.
No longer hoping for understanding.
I was simply executing
the only method this world had ever taught me.
If they cared,
they would come.
And if they didn't—
At least this time,
I held the initiative in my own hands.