Fear does not remain the same forever.
At first, it is sharp—
constant alertness, a readiness for disaster.
Later, it becomes routine.
I could no longer remember when I had last lived without it.
Before leaving the house, I checked the locks without thinking.
When I came home, my eyes went first to the living room, counting heads.
At night, I woke and stood in the hallway, listening—waiting to be certain that nothing had changed.
I never explained this to Petunia.
Explanation gives fear a shape.
And I needed it contained—kept within the boundaries of what still looked like normal life.
I told myself it was responsibility.
A father is meant to worry more than others.
But over time, that way of living began to wear me down.
I grew irritable without knowing why.
Tired without ever feeling rested.
Even in moments meant for comfort, part of my mind remained occupied—reserved for whatever might go wrong next.
It was in that state that I noticed something shift.
Harry had moved a little farther away.
At first, the change was subtle.
He no longer stood close to Dudley.
He stopped looking up when I passed.
He no longer tried to join our conversations.
It was as though he had learned how to place himself where he would not be noticed.
That should have alarmed me.
Instead, I felt something loosen.
Not because I disliked him.
But because I no longer had to remain constantly tense.
I no longer stood between them.
No longer measured distance and movement.
No longer anticipated danger at every moment.
The sense of relief was immediate—and quiet.
So quiet that I did not recognize it for what it was.
I told myself this was normal.
Children drift apart.
Friendships change.
Nothing stays the same forever.
Harry grew quieter.
He sat alone. Walked alone. Ate alone.
No one pushed him away. No one openly mocked him.
They simply did not move toward him.
And I began to think of this state as stable.
One evening, Petunia noticed.
"Did they have a fight?" she asked.
I glanced at the table.
Dudley ate without looking up. Harry sat at the far end.
"No," I said. "Kids go through phases."
The words left my mouth too easily.
At school, the response followed soon after.
The teacher spoke to me gently, carefully choosing her language.
"We've noticed Harry has been a bit… isolated," she said.
The word was softened, rounded at the edges.
"Dudley has some influence among the other children," she added.
She didn't accuse.
She didn't insist.
But the meaning was clear.
As she spoke, my thoughts went somewhere else entirely.
Dudley had been sleeping well.
He no longer woke in the night.
He no longer looked back for reassurance.
I couldn't let him grow up like me.
I couldn't let him learn fear as a habit.
"Children's relationships change," I said. "At this age, conflict is unavoidable."
She watched me closely.
"We just want to ensure it doesn't become something more serious."
In that moment, I chose.
Not deliberately.
Not consciously.
It was a choice shaped by exhaustion.
"Dudley isn't bullying anyone," I said.
And that much was true.
He hadn't hit anyone.
He hadn't shouted.
He hadn't done anything that could be written down or recorded.
He had simply stood closer.
Spoken louder.
Made it clear where the center was.
The teacher hesitated, then nodded.
"We'll continue to observe."
At home, I didn't confront Dudley.
I watched him instead.
There was no pride in him. No cruelty.
No deliberate avoidance of Harry.
Just ease.
An ease I hadn't felt in a long time.
"How was school?" I asked.
"Fine."
"No trouble with anyone?"
"No."
I nodded.
"That's good."
The words were soft.
But they tipped something, just slightly, in his favor.
That night, I slept deeply.
For the first time in weeks.
No waking.
No listening at the door.
And in the morning, that fact unsettled me more than any noise ever had.
Because I understood then—
I was adapting.
Not because this was right.
But because it placed danger a little farther away.
If someone had to stand at the edge,
if someone had to carry the imbalance—
It should not be my son.
I did not argue with that thought when it came.
And that was the moment everything truly began to slip beyond control.