A came in the early evening of the next day.
Not immediately.
Not overnight.
But only after everything had already been seen, discussed, and quietly speculated about.
That timing mattered.
If what happened the night before had truly been considered an emergency,
if it had crossed the line into something uncontrollable,
he would not have waited this long.
I realized that sometime in the afternoon.
I went out as usual—bought groceries, nodded at neighbors.
Some of them looked at me a little longer than normal.
Others opened their mouths, then thought better of it.
No one asked anything directly.
But I knew people were already guessing.
Strangely enough, I wasn't panicking anymore.
Not because I felt safe,
but because I had spent the day replaying what they had told me before—line by line.
Magical incidents were not my responsibility.
Not even if they happened in my house.
Not even if they happened right in front of me.
That was their wording. Not mine.
When the doorbell rang, the sky was not fully dark yet.
I checked through the window first.
No police car.
No official markings.
I opened the door and saw A standing there.
Suit. Tie. Briefcase.
Exactly the same as last time.
He carried no documents.
No folders.
Nothing for me to sign.
He didn't need them.
For situations like this, he only needed the conclusion.
"We've verified the situation," he said.
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't confirmation.
It was a notice given before closing a case.
I didn't invite him to sit.
Not to make a point—
I simply didn't want to play the role of someone waiting for instructions anymore.
"The car last night wasn't yours," I said.
"No," he replied. "A third party."
"A violation," I added.
"It's been recorded," he said.
I nodded.
The response was more decisive than I expected.
And colder.
"What about the cake?" I asked.
He looked at me.
"What cake?"
"The meeting," I said. "There were guests present. An abnormal incident occurred."
"That was magic as well," I said.
I spoke slowly, making sure he heard me clearly.
His tone remained even.
"They don't see it that way."
I paused.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"In their understanding," he said,
"it was a prank."
"A kitchen malfunction. Or a child's joke."
"No inexplicable factors involved."
I looked at him.
"So you're telling me," I said,
"as long as they don't acknowledge it, it didn't happen?"
"It's not a matter of acknowledgment," he replied.
"It's a matter of classification."
"Once it's classified as a normal incident," he said,
"it falls outside our scope of intervention."
I leaned against the doorframe, my fingers pressing into the wood.
That was when it became clear to me—
they weren't incapable of dealing with it.
They simply had no reason to.
"And the contract?" I asked.
"That contract was based on the meeting," I said.
"If the meeting was compromised—"
"A contract is never guaranteed," he said.
The sentence came out effortlessly.
"Even if the meeting had gone smoothly," he continued,
"there is no assurance of an outcome."
"You're avoiding responsibility," I said.
"No," he replied. "I'm defining responsibility."
I took a slow breath.
"Fixing that incident would have been trivial for you," I said.
"Removing the impact. Restoring judgment."
"You're very good at that."
He paused.
Not hesitating.
Choosing his words.
"That would not follow procedure," he said.
"And—"
He stopped briefly.
"There's no need to increase the workload."
That was the moment I understood something.
It wasn't that I had said the wrong thing.
It was that—
nothing I said mattered.
"So," I said,
"you can restore memories."
"You can erase traces."
"You can make the world look like nothing ever happened."
"But the consequences," I looked straight at him,
"fall entirely on me."
He nodded.
No hesitation.
"That's the established division."
I sat down.
Not in defeat—
but in acknowledgment.
"I understand," I said.
He stood.
"Maintaining the current situation," he said,
"is in your best interest."
I didn't answer immediately.
"When Harry comes back again," I said,
"you'll still need my cooperation, won't you?"
"Legally," he replied,
"you remain his guardian."
"Then let me be clear about something," I said.
I looked at him.
"Cooperation has conditions."
His expression didn't change.
"If my situation continues to deteriorate," I said,
"if I have to reconsider even basic living arrangements—
then the way I manage him will also have to change."
"That's your prerogative," he said.
"Including his treatment?" I asked.
"As a guardian," he said,
"you have the authority to manage him in accordance with your duties."
The living room was quiet.
Neither of us spoke.
He moved toward the door.
Before leaving, he stopped.
"You're a smart man," he said.
I didn't respond.
"Harry used to be an ordinary child," he said.
"Now he's a wizard."
He didn't explain further.
The door closed.
I stood there for a long time.
Of course I understood.
Harry was no longer someone who needed to be placed carefully.
Whether or not he was already part of something larger didn't even matter.
What mattered was this:
He was now part of the system.
And if I wanted to keep living my life without further trouble,
I would need to remember one thing—
I could no longer afford to stand in his way.