Some changes don't begin with disasters.
They begin with repetition.
I first became aware of it on a morning so ordinary it should have passed unnoticed.
Dudley called down from upstairs, complaining that he couldn't find his book. He was certain it had been on his desk the night before. I remembered it there as well.
I went up to help him look.
After checking the usual places, I found the book downstairs, wedged behind the sofa in the living room. One corner of the cover was bent, as though it had been shoved into place without care.
"Did you bring this down?" I asked Dudley.
"No," he said immediately.
I turned to Harry.
He was sitting on the carpet, working on a puzzle. When he looked up, his expression was open, confused.
"It wasn't me," he said.
This time, I didn't answer right away.
I returned the book to Dudley's room and said nothing more. But as I walked back down the stairs, a thought followed me—quiet, persistent.
The shelf the book had been taken from was high. Higher than Harry usually reached.
I dismissed it.
Children climb. Children surprise you. That wasn't evidence of anything.
What unsettled me was that this was no longer a single incident.
Keys left in one place and found in another. Doors I was sure I had closed, standing slightly open. Objects moved from shelves where they didn't belong.
Each occurrence could be explained on its own.
Together, they began to form a pattern.
And patterns demand attention.
I still didn't mention any of this to Petunia.
Not because I didn't trust her, but because I understood something instinctively—once doubt was spoken aloud, it would change the shape of the house.
Some questions, once asked, don't stay questions.
So I kept quiet.
That silence, however, didn't mean inaction.
I began adjusting the rules.
Not official ones. Nothing written down or announced. Just small, reasonable restrictions.
Harry was no longer allowed upstairs without permission.
Certain cupboards, once left open, were kept locked.
I asked him to stay where I could see him, especially when Dudley wasn't around.
"Why?" he asked once.
"Because those are the rules," I replied.
He didn't argue.
That obedience should have reassured me.
Instead, it sharpened my unease.
I found myself watching him.
Not openly. Not obviously. But in the way one becomes aware of sounds in the dark—the timing of his footsteps, the way he paused before speaking, the stillness he carried when he thought no one was paying attention.
I told myself this was normal.
Any responsible adult pays attention to children in their care.
But I knew the truth.
I wasn't supervising.
I was checking.
Dudley seemed to sense the change before anyone else.
One afternoon, he tripped while running in the garden. It should have been a bad fall. I saw it happen from the kitchen window—his foot slid forward, his weight shifted, his arms flailed.
And then, impossibly, he steadied himself.
He froze for a moment, then laughed and kept running, as though nothing had happened.
I didn't move.
Later, I asked him if he was all right.
"Fine," he said. "I almost fell."
I nodded.
But I knew what I had seen.
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
I told myself I was imagining connections where none existed. Stress has a way of inventing patterns. Fatigue makes people suspicious.
Yet another thought refused to leave me.
What if I wasn't wrong?
I began sorting memories in my head.
When things went wrong, was Harry nearby?
When Dudley was in danger, did something intervene?
Did these incidents coincide with moments of heightened emotion?
I didn't write any of it down.
Writing would have turned suspicion into accusation.
And I wasn't prepared to accuse a child.
So instead, I took another step.
I stopped letting Harry and Dudley spend time alone together.
The explanation was simple, and entirely reasonable.
"You two argue too much," I said.
It wasn't a lie. Children always argued.
Petunia didn't object. She likely thought I was trying to keep the peace.
I didn't correct her.
From that point on, the house felt different.
Not hostile. Not tense.
Just… thinner.
Harry remained obedient—more so than before. He spoke less. He waited more.
That quiet, once comforting, now pressed against my nerves.
One evening, I paused on the stairs.
Harry stood outside Dudley's bedroom door. He didn't go in. He didn't touch anything. He simply looked at the door for a moment, then turned and walked away.
He had done nothing wrong.
And yet, something inside me tightened.
Because I realized then that I no longer believed that nothing was happening.
The crack wasn't in the walls.
It was in me.
And I understood, dimly, that all it would take was one real incident—one undeniable moment—for that crack to split wide open.
That moment was coming.
I could feel it.