Chapter 1: Privet Drive, Number Thirteen

London always seemed gloomy, even in summer. In the second week of the holiday, after Mrs. Dursley had finished cleaning her precious son Dudley's room at Number Four, Privet Drive, she came downstairs to check on her nephew's chores.

Bowls, washed! Floor, swept and mopped! Dining table, wiped...

Not a bad worker, Mrs. Dursley thought, considering the years they had supported him. If only he hadn't broken Dudley's toy earlier, causing Dudley to ban him from entering his room, she wouldn't have to clean up after him.

Feeling a twinge of regret, Mrs. Dursley went outside to their small backyard. Despite its size, she spent a lot of time tending to the garden.

More precisely, using her neck, twice the length of an average person's, to peer over the hedge and spy on the neighbors.

The things she discovered while spying often turned into seasoning for the Dursley family's dinner table.

Today, her focus was on the house across the street, Number Thirteen Privet Drive. If it weren't for eavesdropping on her neighbors' conversation yesterday, she would have assumed the house was still vacant.

Rumors had it that the owner of that house was reclusive, rarely seen outside except when watering the flowers. Sometimes he wore long robes and peculiar accessories from the last century. There were even accounts of him using a steaming crucible to water the flowers, muttering vague words to them at night.

A very peculiar person indeed.

These rumors triggered unpleasant memories for Mrs. Dursley, so today she intended to find out more about the person.

However, much to her dismay, even after she pruned the bushes in front of her house, she didn't catch a glimpse of the new neighbor.

Nevertheless, separated by the hedge, she could still see those beautiful flowers—silver-blue blooms with seemingly thousands of layered petals, even captivating someone like her, who had little interest in flowers.

At the same time, she witnessed her beloved son and nephew playfully bickering.

Seeing the children unharmed, she could only sigh and return home to prepare lunch.

Outside, the slender Harry was caught by the imposing Dudley, and despair filled his heart.

"Run, keep running!" Dudley grinned, his chubby face contorting in a menacing way.

Harry, with messy black hair and taped-up glasses, stared at Dudley with green eyes, feeling repulsed.

Thud!

Dudley's fist struck his nose. "Oh, still looking at me like that?"

Blood gushed, but Dudley, unfazed, lifted Harry by his oversized shirt collar, contemplating how to amuse himself.

"Hey, Dudley!" A freckled, bucktoothed boy named Piers approached. He signaled Dudley to look at Number Thirteen.

"Oh, yes," Dudley suddenly smiled.

Number Thirteen Privet Drive was shrouded in rumors among the neighborhood children. They said an evil wizard lived there, who liked to eat children and water his flowers with human blood.

Look at those flowers in the garden—so beautiful, supposedly nourished with human blood.

Clearly, Dudley knew more about the rumors surrounding Number Thirteen than his parents did. However, he avoided mentioning it at home, knowing his father disapproved of such magical stories.

"No! Dudley, you can't!" Harry pleaded, trying to free himself, but being too frail from living in the cupboard made him powerless against Dudley's strength.

"Aren't those someone else's carefully nurtured flowers?" Harry quickly interjected.

"Destroyed by you, aren't they?" Dudley was even more excited at this suggestion.

Thus, they arrived at the fence of Number Thirteen, and after ensuring no one was around, Dudley tossed Harry inside.

"No!"

In Harry's cry of despair, accompanied by Dudley and Piers' laughter and fleeing footsteps, the sound of the flowerbed being crushed followed.

The stems were so fragile, emitting a brittle sound, representing the demise of life. Harry felt an unusual connection to these two flowers, as if they were wailing in his ears.

Quickly getting up, Harry saw several silver-blue roses, resembling layers upon layers, now flattened.

These flowers seemed valuable, and Harry also noticed the blood-colored soil.

He paused, and the rumors flooded his mind.

Harry wanted to escape but felt guilty. The conflicting emotions paralyzed him.

Just then, with a creak, the gate of Number Thirteen opened wide.

Turning around, Harry saw exquisite Oxford carved leather shoes, tailored pants, a white shirt, and a leather vest. Above all, a face as stern as a runway model, with golden hair combed back and a lifeless expression. The man held a watering can and wore two old oxidized silver rings on his fingers.

Moon Jones opened the gate, immediately noticing the small intruder in his carefully cultivated garden—the precious Moonlight Flowers, crucial to his cursed potion.

"What...? My flowers! How did you get in?!" Then he noticed Harry with leaves still in his hands.

"No, I've set up an anti-thorn electric shock array on the fence and a restricted formation at the entrance to the front yard. Did you fly in?!"

"Hey, kid!" Moon Jones looked at him with some anger. "Do you know how precious Moonlight Flowers are?"

Harry, now flustered, stammered, "I'm... I'm sorry." His mouth felt unresponsive, and his feet shuffled nervously.

"I... I'll fix it!"

"Fix?" Moon Jones laughed incredulously, somewhat helpless.

But the next moment, an incomprehensible act occurred. Harry knelt on the ground, covering the damaged flowers with his hands.

Harry felt unsure why he did it; it just felt right. Was it a feeling? Yes, he felt compelled to do it.

Sighing, Moon Jones walked over, grabbed Harry's hands, and saw the flowers blooming again. Not just those he touched, but a lifeforce emanated from the center, reviving the entire flowerbed.

Harry, astonished, looked at the now vibrant Moonlight Flowers in his hands.

He glanced up at the man, his eyes showing a hint of timidity. On one hand, he feared the man might be the evil wizard rumored about. On the other hand, revealing such unique abilities often resulted in punishment, as his past experiences had taught him.

In the verdant eyes, he saw a large hand reaching out, adorned with old calluses. What was he going to do? Catch me and tell Aunt Petunia? Will I be confined for the entire holiday?

Or maybe, is he truly the evil wizard from the rumors, coming to take me away? To eat me?

Harry was petrified, not daring to move. He even thought that if the man killed him, it wouldn't matter—no one cared for him, and such days held no nostalgia.

The large hand covered Harry's unruly hair, and on the face that seemed as lifeless as ever, a smile appeared.

"Well done, kid."