Albert flipped back to the table of contents and stopped at a subsection in History of Magic. He stared at the title for a long moment, his fingers resting lightly on the yellowed pages, before finally closing the book halfway.
"Sit down," he said quietly. "I don't know much about you or your past, but perhaps this book can give us some answers."
Harry glanced at the cover. History of Magic. The title struck him as strange in this context, but he didn't question it. He obeyed and sat down, his hands resting awkwardly on his knees.
Albert turned to the marked page and began to read aloud.
His voice was gentle and unhurried, almost lulling. Yet as the words flowed on, the images they formed became clearer—and colder. Scenes from more than a decade ago unfolded in Harry's mind: laughter cut short, promises left unfinished, names recorded in ink with the finality of death.
As the narration continued, the warmth in the room seemed to fade. Harry felt a chill seep into his bones, as though something unseen had brushed past him.
An hour later, Albert closed the book with a soft thud. He took a deep breath and looked up.
Harry's eyes were red.
He was trying very hard not to cry. His face was stiff, controlled, but his fingers betrayed him—twisting together, separating, then knotting again in restless circles.
After a long silence, Harry finally spoke.
"I…"
His voice cracked. He coughed twice, swallowed hard, and forced out a bitter smile.
"Petunia and Vernon always told me my parents died in a car accident."
"If you want to vent, you can," Albert said gently, waving a hand and placing the book flat on the table. "You don't have to hold it in."
Harry shook his head.
"I don't even know what I'm supposed to feel," he admitted. "I thought I'd be sadder. Uncle Albert… does that mean there's something wrong with me? Am I too cold?"
"Of course not." Albert shook his head firmly. "You never met them. Everything you know about them comes from a few cold lines in history books and lies told for convenience."
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
"We don't know their habits, their voices, the way they smiled, or how they looked at the world. Those things matter. Maybe one day, those missing pieces will come to you little by little."
His gaze softened.
"When they do, it will hurt. Slowly. Like a dull knife."
Harry lowered his head. After a while, he whispered, "I want to know more about them."
"That's only natural," Albert said, nodding.
He slid the book across the table toward Harry.
"I'm afraid this is all I can offer for now."
Harry turned the pages carefully, as though the paper itself were fragile.
Albert stood up and went into the kitchen, giving the boy space.
That evening, Harry said goodbye to Uncle Albert on the sofa and stepped outside. A light rain was falling over London, misting the street and blurring the glow of the lamps. He waited for a red car—darkened to black by the night—to pass before crossing the road.
His mind felt hollow.
Images of his parents formed and dissolved again and again, rewritten and erased by doubt.
What kind of people had they been?
How had they spoken?
How had they laughed?
If they hadn't died… would everything have been different?
The thoughts tangled together until he could no longer tell where one ended and another began.
He pushed open the front door.
The house looked the same as always—warm on the outside, cold within.
If his parents were inside right now, what would this place feel like?
Click.
The door opened again behind him.
Vernon Dursley stepped inside, soaked from the rain and wearing a brown overcoat. His face was twisted with irritation. The moment he saw Harry standing there, he shoved him aside roughly.
"Get back to your room!" Vernon barked. "You're still on confinement!"
Harry stumbled but didn't fall. Vernon ripped off his wet coat, hung it on the rack, and marched toward the living room.
Petunia emerged at once and wrapped her arms around her husband.
"You knew," Harry said suddenly.
Vernon froze.
His heavy body turned slowly in the narrow entryway. His eyes narrowed into angry slits.
"What did you say?"
Harry straightened and looked directly at them.
"My parents were wizards," he said calmly. "You knew all along. My mother was your sister, wasn't she?"
Petunia staggered backward as if struck. Her lips trembled, opening and closing soundlessly, terror flooding her face.
Vernon's face turned red—boiling, twitching, veins bulging at his temples.
"Don't—"
His voice sounded like a volcano on the brink of eruption.
In two strides, he was in front of Harry, looming so close that Harry could smell the rain and sweat on him.
"Don't you dare say that word in this house!"
Harry looked up at him—and realized something strange.
He wasn't afraid.
For the first time, Vernon's anger didn't paralyze him. Instead, Harry saw something else buried within it.
He finally understood why Albert had told him not to let his emotions show.
"You really did know," Harry said. "That's why you hate magic so much. Because you know it's real."
"Shut up!"
Vernon grabbed Harry by the collar, yanked open the cupboard door beneath the stairs, and tried to shove him inside.
Harry struggled, clutching the doorframe desperately.
"I just want to know why you lied to me!" he cried hoarsely. "Is that so wrong?!"
"Shut up! Shut up!"
Vernon pried Harry's fingers loose one by one and hurled him onto the thin board that served as a bed.
Bang.
The cupboard door slammed shut. Dust fell from the stairs onto Harry's hair. The small window in the door snapped open again, and Vernon's furious face filled the opening.
"I don't care how you found out," he snarled. "From today on, you're not going anywhere."
With that, he slammed the window shut.
Petunia stood trembling, clutching her chest and taking shallow breaths.
"That boy…" she whispered, horrified.
Vernon put an arm around her shoulders, murmuring reassurances.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
They both stiffened.
"At this hour?" Petunia whispered.
Vernon exchanged a glance with her, then walked to the door and opened it.
A man stood outside in a sharp suit, wearing a brown fedora and a wool coat. His face was calm, carved with quiet authority.
"May I come in?" Albert said mildly. "As a visiting neighbor."
"No," Vernon snapped. "I refuse."
Albert smiled and stepped inside anyway.
"It's quite bright in here," he said pleasantly. "I was thinking of adding more lights to my place too, but unfortunately I don't have complete electrical facilities."
He removed his hat and coat and hung them neatly on the rack.
"I said you're not welcome—"
Albert ignored him and walked past.
As he passed the cupboard, Harry's voice sounded from inside, banging against the door. He had already recognized the visitor from the sound of his voice.
Albert opened the small window briefly.
"You should be sleeping, kid."
"I—"
"Trust me."
He closed the window again and waved his hand lightly over the door. The sounds from inside vanished at once.
Then Albert turned around.
The black barrel of a shotgun was pointed directly at him.
Vernon stood behind it, shaking with rage.
Albert looked at the weapon calmly.
"Mr. Dursley," he said evenly, "I only want us to have a reasonable discussion about the child."
His eyes hardened slightly.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
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