I was woken by the sound of an engine.
At first, I didn't open my eyes.
I assumed I had imagined it.
Privet Drive is always quiet at night—
quiet enough that you can tell which neighbor closes a car door too hard, which window hasn't been fully shut.
But this was different.
The sound was low, continuous, carrying a resonance that didn't belong on the ground.
Not a car. Not a motorcycle.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
My heart was already beating faster than it should have.
Something was wrong.
I sat up and listened.
The engine was still there.
And it was close.
I got out of bed and moved toward the window, keeping my steps light—not because I was afraid of waking Petunia, but because I didn't want anyone else to know that I had already realized something was happening.
I pulled back the curtain.
That's when I saw the car.
It was suspended in the air.
Not landing.
Not taking off.
Just there—hovering, as if the night itself had made room for it.
I didn't scream.
I didn't step back.
I understood immediately:
This wasn't official.
If it were A.
If it were the Ministry.
They would have knocked.
They would have notified me.
They would have followed the procedure I had learned to cooperate with.
They wouldn't come like this—
skipping everything and taking him directly.
I rushed out of the room and up the hallway.
I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't need to.
I'd lived in this house long enough to know every step in the dark.
The door upstairs was already open.
The window was wide. Cold air poured in, the curtain swaying gently.
Harry was standing there.
His bag was packed.
The movements were too practiced to be impulsive.
A rope hung down from outside, shifting slightly in the wind.
I didn't feel anger.
I didn't even feel surprise.
What I felt was a sense of being bypassed—
as if a decision had already been made without me.
"What are you doing?" I shouted.
My voice came out louder than I expected.
Less a question, more a demand for confirmation.
He turned and looked at me.
That look made my stomach sink.
Not panic.
Not hesitation.
It was the look of someone who had already decided—
and was now checking whether anything stood in the way.
I lunged forward and grabbed his ankle.
I didn't hold back.
"You can't leave," I said.
Even then, I couldn't tell whether I was ordering him—or pleading.
What ran through my mind wasn't losing him.
It was something more practical.
The client situation wasn't resolved.
The contract had just collapsed.
A hadn't come yet.
As long as Harry was still here,
there was room to negotiate.
As long as he was under my roof,
I could explain, demand restoration, push things back into the category of being handled.
He couldn't disappear now.
He was being pulled upward.
I held on tightly—
so tightly my fingers began to numb,
so tightly I could feel my joints straining.
"Stop!" I shouted into the air.
Not at Harry.
At the car.
A light flicked on inside.
Someone looked down at me.
For a split second, I almost thought he would respond.
But he didn't.
The look was brief.
No hostility.
No warning.
It was the kind of glance reserved for an unexpected inconvenience—
a minor obstruction not listed in the process.
Then my grip failed.
I wasn't struck.
I wasn't pushed.
I simply realized that whatever I was holding was no longer something I had control over.
I fell.
My hand slammed into the floor, pain flaring through my palm, but it barely registered compared to the hollow sensation in my chest.
When I looked up, there was nothing outside the window.
No car.
No rope.
Even the wind had settled, as if nothing had happened.
I stood and walked to the window, staring into the empty night.
This wasn't anger.
It was fear.
Not fear of Harry.
Not fear of the people who had taken him.
Fear of what A would think.
They had put him under my care.
Given me responsibility.
Expected stability.
And now, he had been taken—by a third party—right under my watch.
In any system, that meant only one thing.
Negligence.
Downstairs, I heard movement.
A neighbor's light turned on.
A window opened.
Low voices drifted through the air.
I stood there, unmoving.
From this moment on, I knew this was no longer just a matter of magic.
It was about records.
Statements.
Judgments.
If A decided I had lost control,
I had no idea what would come next.
No one came that night.
No knock.
No phone call.
No correction.
I returned to the bedroom and lay down, unable to sleep.
The house was quiet.
The street was quiet.
Too quiet.
I replayed the moment I grabbed his ankle again and again—
wondering whether that had been the last instant I could pretend I was still part of the situation.
I stared at the ceiling until morning.
By the time the light came, I understood one thing clearly:
The fear hadn't ended.
It had simply changed the way it stayed with me.