That year moved slowly.
Not because there was nothing to do,
but because every day required more effort than before—
just to get through it.
Most mornings, I sat on the edge of the bed for a while after the alarm rang.
Petunia would already be up, moving around the house,
and I would still be sitting there, staring at the floor.
Not tired.
Just making sure I could do another day.
Losing that client didn't ruin me overnight.
I still went to work every morning.
Badge in. Through the door. To my desk.
The surface was always clean, exactly how I left it.
People still greeted me.
My secretary still placed files on my desk.
My boss still nodded when we passed each other.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
But I knew better.
Before, when something important came up,
my boss would stop by my desk and ask,
"What do you think?"
That stopped happening.
In meetings, when I spoke, no one interrupted.
No one argued either.
The note-taker would write it down,
and the discussion would move on.
As if my words had been collected politely
and quietly set aside.
At lunch, someone once clapped me on the shoulder and said,
"Must be nice. You seem pretty relaxed lately."
I smiled and replied,
"Yeah. Not bad."
Relaxed.
That kind of relaxed that comes from being left alone.
In the afternoons, I sometimes caught myself staring at the screen for too long.
When I realized it, I'd move the mouse, type something—anything—
just to look busy again.
Not for others.
For myself.
When I got home, I always paused at the door.
Before putting the key in the lock,
I took a breath and pushed the day down—
all the useless thoughts, all the tension.
Petunia was usually in the kitchen.
When she heard the door, she'd ask,
"You're back?"
I'd say, "Yeah," and hang up my coat.
She didn't ask about work anymore.
Didn't say things like it'll get better.
She'd learned not to ask.
At dinner, Dudley talked about school.
His voice was quieter than it used to be.
Before speaking, he often glanced at me first.
Sometimes, while sitting, he shifted slightly—
his hand hovering at his lower back, then pulling away quickly.
A small movement.
Almost unconscious.
I noticed every time.
It wasn't pain.
It was memory.
The pig's tail hadn't stayed,
but his body remembered.
I never mentioned it.
I didn't know how to bring it up.
And I didn't know what good it would do.
As the holidays approached, I started sleeping badly.
Not because of dreams.
But because I knew—
Harry was coming back.
That wasn't a guess.
It was something already proven.
I caught myself rehearsing in my head.
If he said this, how would I answer?
If he asked that, how would I avoid it?
If something went wrong, where would I stand?
It felt exactly like dealing with certain people at work—
the kind with authority you couldn't measure
and a temper you couldn't predict.
You never knew when they'd explode.
But you knew one explosion would be enough.
So you held back.
Watched your expressions.
Removed anything that might trigger trouble before it happened.
Not because you respected them.
You knew respect had nothing to do with it.
But because you couldn't afford the cost.
As an adult, you learn something early—
sometimes bending isn't a choice.
It's how you survive.
Not surrender.
Not agreement.
Just knowing where you stand,
and knowing that one wrong step
can bring the whole house down.
I could endure it.
I could act like nothing was wrong.
I could keep things calm on the surface.
But I wouldn't let my child carry that burden.
That evening, I called Dudley into the living room.
He'd just showered, hair still damp,
standing on the carpet with his toes curled slightly.
"Sit down," I said.
He did.
I didn't ease into it.
"He's coming back this holiday," I said.
Dudley's shoulders tightened immediately.
"I'm not asking you to be nice to him," I continued.
"I'm not asking you to talk to him."
He looked up at me.
"You don't have to do anything," I said.
"Just pretend he isn't there."
"What if he starts something?" Dudley asked.
I paused.
"Then you come to me," I said.
"Don't handle it yourself."
He didn't answer right away.
He shifted, his hand hovering near his lower back again.
I looked away.
"I'm not asking you to forgive him," I said.
"I'm not asking you to understand."
"Just—don't get close."
After a few seconds, he nodded.
"Okay."
Clean. Final.
Petunia had been standing in the doorway the whole time.
After Dudley went upstairs and the hallway fell quiet, she came over.
"I'll cooperate," she said.
Not a stance.
Not a judgment.
Just a statement.
I looked at her.
She hesitated, then added softly,
"You wouldn't hurt us."
That tightened my throat.
She wasn't talking about Harry.
She was trusting me.
Trusting that the restraint I was asking for
wasn't cruelty—
just the only option left.
I nodded.
There was nothing to explain.
The next day, we went to the station together.
I picked up the car keys and said, "Let's go."
Petunia grabbed her coat.
Dudley waited by the door with his bag.
The car was quiet.
Not tense.
Not hostile.
Just everyone doing what needed to be done.
I focused on driving,
not thinking about what came next.
King's Cross appeared ahead.
Announcements, trains, voices blending together.
I parked the car.
Pulled the handbrake.
As I opened the door, I knew—
from this moment on,
some things were about to re-enter our lives.
And that was where this chapter ended.