Chapter Text
The crisp suburban air hung heavy with the scent of freshly cut grass and… boredom. Number 4 Privet Drive, a house so ordinary it practically apologized for existing, basked in the afternoon sun. Not a single weed dared to disrupt the uniformity of the meticulously manicured lawn, a testament to Vernon Dursley's obsession with order. The man himself lumbered towards the doorstep, a portly figure with a face like a perpetually startled bulldog. He prided himself on his normality and his security system (which consisted of a very loud alarm and a particularly prickly rose bush that looked more than capable of deterring any rogue wizard or stray cat).
Dumbledore, his flamboyant robes the color of a particularly dramatic sunset, practically vibrated with unconventionality on the sterile doorstep of Privet Drive. "Good afternoon," he boomed, his voice as warm as a crackling fireplace. "Might I trouble you for a moment, Mr. Dursley?"
Vernon’s face contorted in disgust. "Did you escape from a fancy dress ball, or are you one of those… what do they call them… illusionists? Because frankly, it’s a bit much on a Tuesday afternoon. And interrupting a man’s perfectly manicured lawn? Tsk tsk." He puffed out his chest, a rooster defending its coop. "Can't it wait? I've just installed a top-of-the-line security system. Loudest alarm on the street, I assure you, and the roses have particularly vicious thorns. Nasty business, those roses. Had a whole flock of pigeons thinking twice about landing in my garden last week. We don’t want any riff-raff or undesirables around here, thank you very much."
Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but Vernon cut him off with a booming voice, oblivious to the absurdity of his words. "Orphans? Freaks? We don't want any of that sort around here! We have a perfectly normal life, thank you very much!" He slammed the door shut with a resounding thud, leaving Dumbledore standing awkwardly on the doorstep. The old wizard sighed, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. Perhaps a change of plans was in order. After all, Albus Dumbledore wasn't one to be easily deterred. He had faced down dark wizards, navigated treacherous mountains, and even charmed his way past a particularly grumpy gargoyle guarding a hidden doorway. A disgruntled muggle with a penchant for overly prickly roses wasn't going to stop him.
The room was a testament to controlled chaos. Overflowing bookshelves threatened to topple over under the weight of ancient tomes and peculiar artifacts. Portraits of eccentric wizards and witches lined the walls, their eyes twinkling with amusement as they watched Dumbledore pace the floor. A massive family tree, resembling a sprawling tapestry woven with enchanted thread, stretched across one entire wall. Its branches were adorned with miniature portraits and inscribed with names that whispered of forgotten lineages and arcane lineages.
Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles and traced his finger along the Potter family line, muttering to himself. He paused at a rather flamboyant branch labeled "Cainhurst," its vibrant crimson thread standing out against the more subdued colors of the rest of the tree. A portrait of a dashing man in a feathered hat and a crimson coat winked at him. This was Viktor Cainhurst, Harry's great-uncle (twice removed). The portrait shimmered slightly, as if sensing Dumbledore's scrutiny.
"Viktor, old friend," Dumbledore murmured, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Always the most… unconventional choice."
He pulled out a quill and a sheet of parchment, its edges shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The quill dipped itself into an inkwell that swirled with a rainbow of colors, leaving a trail of sparkling ink as Dumbledore began to write. His flourish was legendary, and the letter, filled with flowery prose and coded messages designed to only be understood by the recipient, was practically a work of art in itself. Each sentence hinted at a hidden world of monster hunters and nightmare landscapes, a world far removed from the quiet hum of Privet Drive.
A thousand miles away, nestled amidst a brooding mountain range, stood Cainhurst Castle. Its gothic spires pierced the twilight sky, and an air of mystery hung heavy around its imposing walls. Inside, the opulent Lord of the manor, Viktor Cainhurst, sprawled luxuriously on a chaise longue. Clad in a silk nightgown and a smoking jacket that would make even the most flamboyant peacock blush, he absentmindedly picked at a plate of caviar. A half-eaten blueberry tart sat precariously on a nearby table, its sugary filling threatening to stain the antique Persian rug.
Suddenly, the peaceful scene was shattered by a loud, shrill ringing. Viktor groaned and reached for a peculiar contraption on the bedside table – a brass gramophone with a seashell horn that looked like it belonged in a mermaid's treasure chest.
"Blast it all, who could be calling at this ungodly hour?" he muttered, his voice laced with amusement. With a flick of his wrist, the gramophone crackled to life, and a voice, high-pitched and frantic, filled the room.
"Viktor! It's Petunia, your niece! You remember me, right? From… oh my goodness, this is a long story. Listen, it's about James and Lily…"
Viktor raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on his face. "Petunia? The woman who hasn't spoken to me since I… well, let's just say our taste in hats differed greatly. And James and Lily… gone these ten years, poor dears."
He glanced around the opulent room, his gaze falling on a rack of waistcoats in every color imaginable, each adorned with a more outrageous pattern than the last. Then, his eyes returned to the gramophone.
"Look, Petunia," he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement, "whatever nursery dilemma you've found yourself in, I'm sure you and Vernon can manage a perfectly ordinary child. Now, if you'll excuse me, I haven't seen you in ages, and there's a particularly fetching waistcoat that needs… attending to."
Before he could hang up, Petunia's voice, laced with desperation, cut through the speaker. "No, Viktor, it's not a dilemma! It's… it's Harry! Lily and James… they're gone. Dead! Murdered a few days ago, and they left their baby on our doorstep! That blasted headmaster of hers just dropped him off and…"
The gramophone sputtered to a stop. Viktor sat frozen, the amusement drained from his face. Lily and James, gone? A baby on his uptight niece's doorstep? A slow smile spread across his face, a glint of something dangerous glinting in his eyes. This wasn't a nursery dilemma; this was a call to action. A Cainhurst heir wouldn't be raised by boring relatives – he'd be raised by monster hunters.
He turned to Eva, who watched him with a knowing smile. "Looks like that waistcoat will have to wait, my dear. We have a family emergency to attend to."