The holidays had settled over Hogwarts, draping the castle in a quiet stillness. Without the usual chatter of students or the sound of laughter drifting through the corridors, the ancient stronghold felt oddly empty—like a grand stage after the final curtain has fallen.
High above Hogsmeade Station, Maverick hovered silently, about a hundred meters in the air. Below, the Hogwarts Express had just let out its final whistle and began moving, carrying the students back home.
He cast one final look at the distant castle, and with a soft pop, Disapparated, returning home as well.
---
Time moved swiftly, and before long, it was the morning of July 7th. The sun rose over the tidy streets of Little Whinging, casting a warm glow over the rows of identical houses on Privet Drive.
At this early hour, the neighborhood would typically be quiet, but today, something was different. A row of government SUVs slowly cruised down the street, their lights flashing silently. There were no sirens, only the steady blink of blue as they passed.
The vehicles came to a stop outside Number Four, a neat, ordinary-looking two-story house with trimmed lawns and well-kept flowerbeds. Inside one of the SUVs, seated in the back, were two figures—a middle-aged man in a formal suit and a younger man dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt and black trousers. They were Maverick and his father, Michael.
Michael glanced at the house. "Is this the place?"
Maverick gave a quiet hum in reply.
A man in a black suit stepped out from the front and opened the door for them with a respectful nod.
Though it was early on a weekend, the sight of the motorcade had already drawn attention. Curtains were being drawn back, and faces appeared at windows, their eyes wide at the sight of the unmarked convoy lined up in front of one of their own. People whispered among themselves, exchanging curious glances as the black SUVs remained parked in the quiet street, their blue lights flashing silently.
Maverick and Michael walked up the path to the front door and rang the bell.
The door opened to reveal a large, red-faced man with a bushy moustache and suspicious eyes. Vernon Dursley blinked at the two visitors on his doorstep.
"Good morning," Maverick greeted.
Vernon didn't answer. He just stood frozen, mouth slightly open as though he had seen a ghost.
Just then, a shrill voice echoed from inside. "Vernon? Who is it?"
The sound seemed to snap Vernon out of his stupor. His posture stiffened, his expression shifting into something almost comically respectful.
"You—you—you—" he stammered, his eyes fixed on Michael. "You're... you're... M-M-Mr Prime Minister..."
Michael gave a polite nod. "May we come in?"
Vernon's throat worked as he glanced between Michael, Maverick, and the fleet of black vehicles outside. His mind raced—what on earth could the Prime Minister want with him? But he didn't dare keep the man waiting.
"O-of course!" he said quickly, stepping aside with an overly friendly gesture. "Please, please, come in!"
Inside, the house smelled of toast and polish. Petunia Dursley was in the kitchen, a mug in her hand when she caught sight of the visitors. Just like her husband, she too froze on the spot, and the mug nearly slipping from her fingers.
She shot a bewildered look at her husband, who could only shrug helplessly as he too had no idea what was going on.
"Petunia," Vernon called, "the Prime Minister is visiting. Could you prepare some tea and—and refreshments?"
Still stunned, she blinked rapidly, then nodded quickly, as if on autopilot. "Yes, yes, of course!"
Vernon guided them to the living room, and gestured nervously toward the sofa. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."
Michael and Maverick sat, and only then did Vernon dare to perch himself on the edge of the opposite chair.
Maverick glanced around. He had come here with his father for one purpose and had no intention of beating around the bush, so he got straight to the point. "There are supposed to be two children living here. Where are they?"
Vernon swallowed. "Ch-children? Uh... they're still sleeping, sir," he stammered.
"Could you please bring them here." Michael finally spoke
Vernon gulped. His eyes flickered toward the cupboard under the stairs—visible from where they sat—and his palms grew clammy. If it were just Dudley, he would have no problem fetching him from his bedroom upstairs. But Harry…
Could they be here for Harry? Vernon thought. But why?
Just as his mind raced, he saw the young man in front of him tilt his head and ask, "Why do you look so nervous?"
Vernon's mouth opened and closed like a fish. He couldn't answer.
Michael's voice rang out again, this time with a firmness that allowed no room for argument. "Please bring the children."
Vernon swallowed again. He had no choice. This was the bloody Prime Minister in front of him, and he couldn't afford to refuse.
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," Vernon said with a stiff nod. He muttered the last part under his breath, then glanced nervously between Maverick and Michael before turning toward the cupboard under the stairs.
Maverick's magical sense already knew where Harry was. He could feel the boy's presence not far off, down in the cupboard under the stairs. But he didn't speak, choosing instead to watch and wait. He wanted to see how the Dursleys would go about explaining.
As Vernon climbed the stairs, Petunia came holding a tray with tea. She placed it carefully on the table with trembling hands. Nervously, she stood in front of them, hands clasped tightly together as she tried to maintain an air of composure. She was so absorbed in her anxiety that she didn't even notice her husband had left.
Maverick gave a subtle gesture with his hand, inviting her to sit.
Petunia blinked and finally looked around, realizing that Vernon was no longer in the room. Her confusion deepened, and she glanced toward the stairs.
When she saw her husband climbing the last few steps, she felt a wave of disorientation. What was going on? She was completely at a loss for what was happening, but she didn't dare question it. She didn't have the courage.
Before she could voice anything, Michael's calm voice broke through the tension. "Please, take a seat," he said nodding toward the empty chair.
"Your husband just went to fetch your son..."
Petunia blinked again, her thoughts racing. My son? The words hit her like a wave. Could it be? Was her son somehow the reason for this visit? Could her little boy, the one who had always been a handful, be some kind of genius? Was that why the Prime Minister himself had come?
Maverick, his magic attuned to her thoughts, felt his eyes twitch. This woman was jumping to some wild conclusions, and it was almost amusing.
As the minutes passed, Vernon returned downstairs, followed by a young boy—chubby, with a scowl on his face. He was Dudley Dursley, their son.
Vernon gave an awkward smile and introduced Dudley to Maverick and Michael. "This is our son, Dudley," he said, his voice tight with nervousness.
Maverick smiled warmly at the boy. To be honest, he had no ill will toward little Dudley. From the books, Maverick knew that Dudley had eventually changed, and much of his earlier behavior had stemmed from the spoiled upbringing the Dursleys had given him.
Seeing Maverick's smile, Petunia's eyes lit up, certain now that her earlier suspicions must be true. Could it be that her son really was the reason for all of this? Could her precious son be so exceptional that the Prime Minister himself had come to notice?
But what Maverick said next swept her assumptions away in an instant.
"Hello, Dudley," Maverick said warmly. "You may head back upstairs to your room."
The couple's faces sank into confusion. What was the point of bringing their son down if they were just going to send him back upstairs?
Vernon glanced at Dudley, who was equally bewildered, then leaned down to whisper in his son's ear. "Go back upstairs," he murmured, trying to hide the sweat on his brow.
Dudley was confused, but he obeyed all the same. When his father came to get him upstairs, he saw an expression on the man's face he had never seen before. Vernon had spoken to him in a sharp, serious tone, telling him to listen and do exactly as he was told—no questions, no excuses.
The man who was usually all smiles and praise had been strict, almost cold. And maybe something about that change made Dudley quiet down too. So when his father asked him once more to go back to his room, he simply turned and climbed the stairs without a word.
Vernon, by now, was practically drenched in sweat. His heart was racing. Part of it was the fear that Dudley might act out in front of the Prime Minister.
But more than that, the thought of calling Harry down made his skin crawl. First of all, the cupboard under the stairs was far from a fitting place for a child to stay. But that wasn't the main reason.
Even if he could somehow come up with an excuse for why Harry was kept there, what would happen if Harry spoke out about the treatment he was receiving?
Vernon knew exactly how inhumane their treatment of Harry was, but the fact that Harry was so different from them somehow made it easier to ignore. Still, that wasn't an excuse. It was outright child abuse, and deep down, Vernon knew it. His wife knew it, too.
Finally, he knew very well that child abuse was a serious crime—one that could land him in prison. He couldn't bring himself to face it.
Just as Dudley's footsteps faded upstairs, Michael spoke again, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "Now, bring the other child who lives here..."
Vernon hesitated, and not just him—his wife, too, felt panic rising in her chest. They stood frozen for a moment, their minds whirling. Their eyes met, and the same fear reflected in each other's gaze.
Unfortunately, they had no choice but to go get Harry.
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