The Prisoners of Hogwarts

Chapter 327 No. 4, Privet Road

第327章 女贞路4号（5K）（2/2）

In the early morning, the mist on Privet Road had not yet completely dissipated, the air was sticky and stuffy, filled with the scent of manicured lawns, damp asphalt, and a deliberately maintained tranquility characteristic of middle-class neighborhoods.

A crow with glossy black feathers and overly sharp eyes, like a drop of dark ink falling into still water, silently passed through the thin mist, circled half a circle, and landed precisely in the shadow of an oak tree diagonally opposite No. 4 Privet Drive.

The next moment, the shadow twisted slightly, and the crow's form receded, stretched, and reformed like flowing water.

Lin Qi, dressed in a crisp dark gray suit, stood silently in place, undisturbed even by the surrounding dust. He seemed to have been there from the very beginning, out of place with the somber background of the street, yet strangely blending into the stillness of the morning.

His gaze swept calmly over the almost identical square houses on both sides of the street, the neatly trimmed hedges, and the windows that were polished to an excessive shine.

My gaze finally fell on the address of the target house—"No. 4, Privet Road".

The house looked solid and dull, exuding the soulless "normality" that the Dursleys so desperately sought.

Just then, a very subtle feeling of being watched swept over my senses like a spider's web.

It wasn't magical detection, but rather a more primitive form of human voyeurism.

Lin Qi turned his head and followed the prying gaze. He caught sight of a window on the second floor of a house in the distance. The curtains fluttered rapidly, and a blurry figure of an old woman flashed by, disappearing even further into the shadows.

Arabella-Feger.

Lynch confirmed the identity almost immediately.

One of Dumbledore's protectors, a Squib. Her significance here is self-evident. This silent surveillance.

This is a kind of footnote to Harry's situation in this "home". It seems like a peaceful prison, but there are eyes watching from the shadows, and they are also wary of any unconventional forces that approach, including himself.

Lin Qi subtly withdrew his gaze, showing no sign of anything amiss.

He knew he was on record, but it didn't matter.

He strode forward, his leather shoes making a regular, clear thud on the sidewalk, heading straight for the gleaming white door of No. 4 Privet Road, which exuded an air of aloofness.

Just as he approached the porch, he faintly heard a dull, unusual sound coming from inside the house—like something heavy being moved.

Or is it a suppressed roar?

The sound was muffled, but enough to indicate that the morning inside was not as peaceful as it appeared.

His expression remained unchanged as he raised his hand and rang the doorbell steadily and forcefully.

"Ding-dong"

'

The crisp sound of the bell pierced through the door panel.

Inside the door, the faint commotion seemed to suddenly subside, followed by heavier footsteps pounding closer to the doorway, accompanied by a muffled, unfriendly curse.

The door was flung open with a loud bang. An unusually obese man, his face flushed a deep purple, blocked the doorway. He wore a tight shirt, his chest heaving violently, and the veins on his short, thick neck bulging, like a bull that had been thoroughly enraged.

Before opening the door, he was clearly in the midst of some intense emotional outburst, so much so that when he saw Lin Qi standing outside the door, his furious expression froze on his face before he could fully suppress it.

Lin Qi, dressed in a well-tailored dark gray suit, exuded a calm and aloof demeanor, which clashed with the mundane atmosphere of Privet Road in the early morning and contrasted sharply with the irritable aura emanating from inside the door.

Vernon Dursley Lynch's expression underwent a dramatic change as he immediately confirmed the identity of the person before him from Harry's previous description: lingering rage, suspicion at a strange, respectable visitor, an instinctive attempt to maintain "normal" social decorum, all mixed together into something extremely distorted and strained.

He took a deep breath, trying to lower his voice, but his heavy breathing still couldn't completely calm down: "Good morning? May I ask who you're looking for?" His glare swept sharply over Lynch, with scrutiny and lingering wariness.

"Mr. Dursley? My name is Jim Lynch, and I'm here to see Harry Potter." Lynch's voice was steady and clear.

"Harry Potter?"

That name was like a key, instantly turning open a valve.

The fragile facade of "normality" that Dursley had been maintaining crumbled, replaced by a more primal, more boiling rage. His face turned from purplish-red to a horrifying bluish-black, his eyes widening in disbelief and disgust, and a sense of "I knew it" resentment.

"Him! It's him again!" Dursley's roar seemed to shake the doorframe. He whirled around, his thick fingers trembling as he pointed into the depths of the room. "Look! Look what this kid has brought me! One wasn't enough, now there's another! You lot—you lot—" He seemed unable to find words strong enough to express his loathing. His gaze was fixed on Lynch, as if Lynch's neat appearance was a despicable disguise.

"This is never going to end! You're ruining my house! My morning!"

His anger was so intense that it was clearly not just because Lynch, this strange visitor, had mentioned Harry's name; he wanted to slam the door shut, but didn't dare.

Finally, Dursley stepped aside, his obese body moving roughly and reluctantly, hissing through clenched teeth, "Come in! All of you come in! We need to get this straight today!"

As Lynch stepped into the entryway, he was immediately struck by the Dessleys’ deliberately crafted yet lifeless sense of “cleanliness.”

As soon as he entered the living room through the foyer, the scene before him explained why Dursley was so furious.

Sirius Black stood in the center of the living room, his long black hair slightly disheveled, his gray eyes burning with cold fury. His body was tense, facing Petunia Dursley, whose face was pale but whose neck was still stiff. A chubby, strong boy—clearly Dudley Dursley—was peeking out from behind her.

Harry stood to the side and slightly behind Sirius, wearing old clothes that were clearly hastily put on, his hands gripping his godfather's arm tightly, his face filled with anxiety and exhaustion.

When Harry's gaze met Lynch's, a look of relief suddenly shone in his green eyes, as if a drowning person had seen a rescue boat, and his grip on his godfather's hand loosened almost imperceptibly for a moment.

"Lynch!" Sirius turned his head, his voice filled with suppressed anger, but his taut shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly for a moment.

Dursley slammed the door shut, becoming a wall of flesh radiating rage blocking the entrance to the living room. His gaze swept fiercely back and forth between Sirius and Lynch, his heavy breathing unusually clear in the suddenly silent living room.

His previous anger now had a clear double target: the uninvited guest inside the house who was threatening his wife, and the new visitor at the door who, despite appearing respectable, was actually "of the same ilk" and had come for the same "source of trouble".

Ignoring Dursley's almost palpable rage, Lynch said calmly, "I received the letter. It seems I arrived just in time."

This statement seemed to be a signal, allowing Vernon Dursley, who was blocking the entrance to the living room, to find a new focus for his venting.

He breathed heavily, his gaze sweeping past Lynch and Sirius, fixed on Harry, his voice trembling with agitation and what he perceived as grievance: "Just the right time? Aha! Just the right time indeed! Potter, look! Look! We've spent over a decade raising you—taking you in, feeding you, providing for you—and this is what we get in return? These—these friends! They keep coming to our door! Disrupting our peaceful, normal lives?!"

His accusations emphasized the words "calm" and "normal," and his waving arms encompassed Sirius's sudden appearance and Lynch's visit, as if it were all a disaster that Harry had deliberately brought about.

Lynch turned around to face Vernon.

His movements were unhurried, his gaze calmly fixed on the other man's oily face, glistening with excitement. His voice remained politely clear, yet carried an undeniable force: "Mr. Dursley, please be quiet for a moment. We need to deal with some emergency."

Vernon opened his mouth as if more roars were about to burst forth.

However, when he met Lynch's dark, calm, almost icy eyes, a kind of intuitive chill overwhelmed his boiling anger.

There was no threat or emotion in his eyes, but rather a sense of knowing everything and being in control of the situation, which made him choke on his words.

He mumbled a few unclear words, his expression shifting, and finally shut his mouth in a huff. He just snorted heavily and walked stiffly to Penny and Dudley, who were standing on the other side of the living room. He stood there like an angry mountain of flesh, watching everything with a gloomy gaze.

Lynch stopped looking at him and walked straight to Sirius, who was still tense, and Harry, who had breathed a sigh of relief.

"You came really fast," Lynch said to Sirius, while quickly checking Harry's condition with his eyes. Apart from being tired and nervous, there were no signs of injury on his body.

Sirius took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down, but the anger in his gray eyes had not subsided.

"You know, ever since—I haven't been sleeping well." His voice was hoarse from staying up late and anxiety. "I received a letter from Hedwig in the middle of the night, and saw what Harry had written—" He glanced at Harry, a flicker of heartache and deeper anger in his eyes. "I set off immediately, but this damn Muggle neighborhood, all the houses look the same! It took me a while to make sure it was this one, and I was just about to ask the family—" His voice suddenly rose, and he glared at the Dursleys again. "And guess what? I knocked, they opened the door, I asked Harry—Does he live here? And they actually! They actually told me to my face that there's no such person here! They wanted to lock me out!"

His chest heaved, clearly still furious as he recalled what had just happened.

As a godfather who had just found his godson and was eager to make amends, this direct denial and rejection undoubtedly touched his most sensitive nerve.

Lynch raised one hand and made a gentle but clear downward gesture.

"Calm down, Sirius. I understand." His voice was reassuring. "Leave it to me."

Sirius glanced at Lynch's calm face, then at Harry's pleading eyes, and swallowed back the rest of his accusations. He relaxed his tense shoulders slightly, but still stood beside Harry in a protective stance.

Lynch then turned his gaze to Penny Dursley, who had been trying to make her presence as inconspicuous as he had entered.

Her thin, bony fingers gripped the sash of her morning robe tightly, her neck stiff, glancing at Sirius and Lynch only out of the corner of her eye.

Lynch looked at her, his tone flat, yet like a pebble thrown into stagnant water: "Penny, long time no see."

These words caused Sirius and Harry to look at Lynch in astonishment. But Harry quickly realized that Lynch was his mother Lily's childhood friend, so it seemed reasonable that he knew Petunia; Sirius also quickly recovered, and the surprise in his eyes faded rapidly, replaced by a more complex scrutiny.

Vernon Dursley's reaction was far more dramatic. He stared wide-eyed at Lynch, then at his pale-faced wife, as if he couldn't believe his ears, much less understand how his "normal" Penny, who always avoided strange things, could know yet another "weirdo" like this!

But the most shocked person was Penny herself. She shuddered as if pricked by a needle, finally raising her head to look at Lynch with suspicion and uncertainty, her gaze sweeping over his face, trying to find a trace of familiarity in his cold, adult features.

"Who—who are you?" Her voice was dry and tense. "I don't know you."

Lin Qi's lips twitched slightly, revealing a warm smile.

"Really? I'm the shoemaker's son, haven't you forgotten?" His voice remained steady, tinged with a hint of reminiscence. "Back then, you even lent me your owl."

"Jim Lynch!"

Penny-Evans—no, it was Penny-Dassley—who blurted out the name almost incoherently, her shrill voice interrupting Lynch. Her face was even paler than before, almost bluish, and her lips trembled.

As if suddenly realizing what she had said, she abruptly covered her mouth with her hand, glancing in panic at Vernon beside her, whose expression had completely frozen and whose eyes were filled with disbelief and suspicion. Then she quickly looked at Lynch, her eyes filled with pleading, warning, and deep fear.

"—I remember who you are." She forced herself to speak in a voice that was as calm as possible, yet still trembling, each word seeming to be squeezed out. "Please, stop talking. Please, stop talking."

Lynch remained silent about Penny's almost pleading interruption, simply gazing at her calmly, as if through this tense, harsh, middle-aged woman whose soft edges had been worn away by time and life, he saw the tall, thin girl from long ago who hid behind the window, peeking with a complex look at her sister receiving the owl letter.

"It's been more than a decade since we last met," Lin Qi's voice remained flat as he stated a fact, "Your transformation—is truly astonishing."

This sentence was like a dull knife, gently scraping across the shell that Penny was trying so hard to maintain, a shell called "normal".

Her thin shoulders twitched almost imperceptibly, avoiding Lin Qi's self-sunlight, but she couldn't help but steal glances at him again.

The man before her, dressed in a suit and tie, with a cool demeanor and the air of a successful man, overlapped with and separated from the quiet "shoemaker's son Jim Lynch" in her memory, who always wore faded old clothes, bringing a strong sense of unreality and a deeper sense of bewilderment.

Her lips twitched, but she managed to squeeze out a dry, barely audible "You too."

Lynch ignored her perfunctory response. His gaze shifted slightly to Harry, the boy intently watching this conversation that was so relevant to him, before returning to Petunia's face. His tone was clear and direct, cutting to the heart of the matter: "But you weren't always like this." There was no accusation in his tone; it was more like a calm confirmation. "I've heard about Harry's experiences here before. But I never imagined it would come to this, that even the most basic existence could be so easily denied."

He paused, giving Penny time to process his words, then asked, his voice low but each word clear: "Why did you do that?"

Penny's face instantly lost all color, her lips trembled, as if she wanted to explain, or as if the question had struck a corner of her heart that she herself did not want to delve into.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out; her eyes darted around in a panic.

"Why?!"

The one who answered Lynch was not Petunia, but Vernon Dursley, who was completely ignited by his wife's silence, the strange visitor's "old acquaintance" relationship with his wife, and the question that directly touched on their core attitude towards Harry.

Like a wild beast whose territory had been invaded, he took a sudden step forward, temporarily forgetting his earlier wariness of Lynch's gaze. His pent-up anger and prejudice erupted: "Because you freaks shouldn't even exist!" he roared, spittle flying, pointing at Lynch, then sweeping his finger over Sirius and Harry. "Look at what you've brought! Monsters! Disasters! Incomprehensible things! It's right to kick you all out of this country! Go back to your filthy corners!"

The living room was deathly silent, save for Vernon's heavy breathing.

Dudley shrank back in fright at his father’s outburst, while Penny closed her eyes tightly, as if that would shut everything out.

Lynch slowly turned to Vernon, his face still showing no sign of anger, even calmer than before.

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering a casual suggestion, then asked in a tone as casual as if discussing the weather, "Mr. Dursley, are you considering personally bringing up the suggestion of deporting certain groups to His Excellency the Prime Minister?"

Vernon's roar came to an abrupt halt, as if he had been choked.

Lynch continued in that calm yet chilling tone, "If you'd like, I can arrange it immediately. Through some—relatively direct—channels. Perhaps this afternoon, you can present your views in person at Buckingham Palace or 10 Downing Street. What do you think of that arrangement?"

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