The morning air was damp and heavy as Harry stood silently in the corner of the Dursleys' living room, watching his aunt, uncle, and cousin gather their things. The quiet, strained energy in the room was underscored by the harsh sounds of suitcase zippers and the rustle of fabric, each snap and click jarring in the stillness. For years, Harry had imagined the day they would leave him or he would leave them—but he'd never thought it would look like this. The three of them, torn from the life they'd known, with him in the shadows, arms crossed, a silent witness to the final unraveling of Privet Drive.

"Useless load of rubbish," Vernon muttered, straining as he wrestled a particularly heavy suitcase down the stairs. His glare shot to Harry, sharp with resentment and a hint of something else—an unease he couldn't quite mask. "You—standing there like a waste of space. Could've just let us leave without the added fuss of watching us pack, couldn't you?"

Harry didn't flinch. He had learned, over the years, to meet his uncle's gaze with a calm endurance, an unwavering stare that seemed to unsettle Vernon more now than ever. But before he could say anything, Dudley stepped forward, a flicker of something softer in his expression.

"I don't think he's a waste of space," Dudley said quietly, a surprising firmness in his voice. He looked at Harry, a clumsy earnestness in his gaze as he added, "I… never really got the chance to say it, but… thank you, Harry."

Harry blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in Dudley's eyes. "Thank me? For what?"

Dudley's face reddened, but he pushed on, his voice softer but steady. "For saving my life. That night… with those things. The Dementors. You saved me, and I never really… never got the chance to thank you for it."

The words hung between them, strange and heavy. Harry stared at Dudley, the memory of that night flashing back—Dudley, stumbling, helpless, as the Dementors closed in, and Harry casting his Patronus to drive them back. The gratitude in Dudley's eyes now was something he'd never expected to see, and it struck a chord deep within him.

For a moment, he didn't know what to say. Finally, he extended a hand, meeting Dudley's gaze with a nod. "You're welcome, Dudley."

Dudley took Harry's hand and gave it a firm shake. It was an awkward gesture, but in that handshake, there was an understanding—a brief but real bridge over years of resentment and misunderstanding.

"Thanks, Harry," Dudley murmured again, almost as if to himself. He looked down, embarrassed, and backed away, his hand slipping into his pocket as he gave a small, hesitant smile.

Petunia, clutching her handbag tightly, watched the exchange with a look of discomfort but also something else, something softer that flickered briefly across her face. Vernon, on the other hand, looked away, his face flushed, his mouth set in a hard line as he busied himself with the luggage, as if the exchange were something he couldn't, or wouldn't, acknowledge.

"Well, we'd best be off then," Vernon muttered, casting Harry a final, disdainful glance. But beneath his irritation, there was an edge of nervousness, a faint crack in the usual mask of disdain. With a last, hurried movement, he gestured to Petunia and Dudley to follow him.

They didn't look back as they stepped out into the quiet of Privet Drive, and Harry hadn't expected them to. He watched as they climbed into the waiting car, his mind a swirling storm of unspoken words and feelings he couldn't quite place. As the car pulled away, carrying the Dursleys into an uncertain future, Harry felt the weight of a goodbye he'd never fully anticipated.

They drove in silence, the familiar roads of Little Whinging giving way to the vast stretch of the motorway, and then—hours later—to the bustling terminal of Heathrow Airport. Petunia clutched her bag tightly, her knuckles white as they made their way through check-in and security, her lips pressed in a thin, tense line. Dudley, still quiet, kept looking back as if expecting someone to appear behind them. Vernon held his head high, but his gaze flicked nervously over his shoulder, scanning the crowds.

The flight to Seattle was long, the hours passing slowly as the landscape below shifted from sprawling cities to endless plains and then to the sweeping, mountainous terrain of the Pacific Northwest. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, they touched down, making their way from the airport to the small, mist-covered town where they had been promised safety.

Forks, Washington. Vernon kept the name fixed in his mind, clinging to it as if it held some kind of power over the unknowns they faced. He couldn't say he was thrilled about their destination—what little he'd seen of Forks was dim, overcast, and wild in a way that unnerved him. But they had been assured that here, they would be safe.

They pulled up to a modest, two-story house at the end of a cul-de-sac, surrounded by towering trees and dense, green foliage that seemed to swallow the light. Next door, a sheriff's patrol car sat in the driveway, a stark reminder of the unfamiliar world they'd entered.

"This is it, then," Vernon muttered, staring at the house with a mixture of resignation and relief. At least they had a place to stay, he told himself. Somewhere to wait until this strange business with Harry's world had blown over. He grabbed the keys from the estate agent they'd met earlier and unlocked the door, motioning for Petunia and Dudley to follow.

Inside, the house was simple but comfortable, a far cry from their home on Privet Drive. The furniture was sturdy, the windows large but heavily curtained, and the rooms filled with the quiet hum of a place long unused. It felt safe enough, though there was an underlying strangeness to it, an isolation that put Vernon on edge.

As they unpacked in tense silence, a knock came at the door, startling them. Vernon went to answer it, squaring his shoulders as he pulled it open. Standing on the porch was a tall, slightly rugged man with kind eyes and a police badge clipped to his belt.

"Evening," the man said, his voice friendly but wary. "I'm Sheriff Charlie Swan. I live just next door." He extended a hand, which Vernon hesitated before shaking.

"Vernon Dursley," he replied stiffly. "These are my wife, Petunia, and my son, Dudley. We've just moved in."

"Welcome to Forks," Sheriff Swan said, his gaze sweeping over the Dursleys with a mixture of curiosity and politeness. "It's a quiet town, though the weather's not for everyone. I wanted to let you know, though, that if you need anything, you're welcome to come by."

Petunia gave a polite but nervous nod, clutching Dudley's arm as if he might vanish at any moment. Dudley gave a shy wave, watching the sheriff with quiet curiosity.

"Well, thank you, Sheriff Swan," Vernon replied, his voice stiffer than he'd intended. He cleared his throat, forcing a strained smile. "We're… grateful for your hospitality."

Charlie nodded, his gaze lingering on each of them for a moment as if he were taking their measure. "Good to hear. Nice to meet you all. And don't worry—this town may be small, but it looks after its own."

With a final nod, Sheriff Swan turned and headed back to his house, leaving the Dursleys standing in the doorway, watching his retreating figure. When he disappeared through his own front door, Vernon let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Well," he muttered, shutting the door with a definitive click. "Here we are. Safe and sound. Let's… make the best of it, shall we?"

But as he spoke, a strange chill settled over him. Forks might be quiet, it might even be safe, but he couldn't shake the feeling that they were just as far from security as they'd ever been. The mist outside seemed to press against the windows, as if the forest itself were closing in on them.

Vernon cast one last look at the shadows outside before turning away, determined to ignore the creeping sensation that they were only at the beginning of something unknown, something they could never have anticipated.