Or, Take Another Look

The ride back to Number Four, Privet Drive was suffocatingly tense.

Uncle Vernon grumbled incessantly about the Muggle drivers on the road and the outrageous petrol prices, while sneaking glances at Caesar in the rearview mirror, as if confirming whether this "son" who had returned in a bizarre robe was still the one he recognized.

"So," Vernon's voice rang out sharply in the cramped car, "you didn't disgrace the Dursley name at that... odd school, did you? How were your grades?" He deliberately stressed the words "Dursley name."

Caesar gazed out the window at the familiar yet strange streets of Surrey rushing past, his tone utterly flat: "Attended classes normally. Grades... met expectations."

"Met expectations?" Vernon snorted, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. But then, a strange mix of disgust and a twisted sense of pride crept across his pudgy face: "Still better than that freak who lived in our cupboard! I'd bet a whole year's turnover that Potter kid is dead last in your freak school! Probably got expelled already, hasn't he?" He turned to Petunia, seeking validation.

Petunia's body stiffened slightly. Her eyes fixed rigidly on the road ahead, she squeezed out a short, ambiguous syllable from her throat: "Mm."

Everything about Harry Potter always managed to strike the Dursleys' most sensitive, most unbearable nerves—the fear of magic, the contempt for the "abnormal," and the deep, fermented, complex emotions Petunia harbored toward her sister Lily, emotions she herself refused to acknowledge.

Just then, Dudley, who had been sulking in the passenger seat, hogging most of the space, suddenly twisted his thick neck. "Hey, bro," he said in his characteristic, spoiled, muffled voice, "does your school really teach you to use that stupid stick?" He made a crude waving motion. "You know, shooting green light at each other? Like in the movies?"

Caesar met Dudley's gaze calmly in the rearview mirror and shook his head. "Attacking others randomly is not allowed at school. It's a serious violation."

"Tch, boring." Dudley muttered, turning back. But within seconds, he couldn't help lowering his voice again: "So have you... secretly used it on anyone? Like, made someone's hair fall out? Or made someone's nose grow longer?" His small eyes sparkled with a childlike, cruel curiosity.

"Dudley!" Petunia snapped sharply, but it sounded more like a habitual, half-hearted scolding.

Caesar didn't answer Dudley's question. He simply looked away, turning his gaze back out the window. He could feel the family's attitude toward him was a heightened contradiction. On one hand, Caesar, as the "freak brother who does magic," had become a twisted talking point for Dudley to show off and belittle among his friends. On the other hand, Vernon and Petunia's feelings toward him were complex and hard to articulate—fear, rejection, yet a grudging tolerance and vague discomfort born from blood ties and the fact that "he's still our son."

Caesar saw through it all with crystal clarity, but found it only absurd and cold. All the Dursleys' emotions—fear, rejection, twisted pride, petty jealousy—were nothing more than environmental noise to him, an insignificant backdrop.

If you can't find the book by its title, try searching by the author's name; maybe it's just been renamed!

His goals lay far ahead, deep within the wizarding world. These trivial dramas of a Muggle family stirred not a single ripple in his heart. Perhaps... there was another place, too.

On a stifling afternoon in mid-July, after using the first batch of Longmu at home, Caesar made a request to the Dursleys that left them both relieved and vaguely uneasy: he needed to go to London to research materials for a "summer independent study project for school." It might take a few days, and he would stay at "a classmate's house."

Vernon grumbled a few complaints about "being so secretive" and "wasting train fare." Petunia nervously pressed: "A classmate's house—it's a normal family, right?" In the end, with Caesar's calm and affirmative assurance, they reluctantly agreed. Perhaps deep down, they too craved a temporary reprieve from the invisible pressure of having this "time bomb" in the house.

Caesar changed into the Muggle clothes the Dursleys had prepared for him, which met their aesthetic standards, and boarded the train to central London. His destination was clear: Hampstead.

The closer he got to that Victorian townhouse in his memory, the more overwhelming the suffocating sense of dissonance became. His reason coldly declared: this was his first time, as a classmate, formally visiting Hermione Granger's home. Yet, in the dark waters of his consciousness, countless fragments of memory from the simulations—warm, detailed, and vivid—surged up like unchained ghosts, madly churning.

Warm lamplight filled the study, the air a blend of old books, parchment, and the faint aroma of coffee.

At the dining table, discussions about improvements to Muggle dental instruments and the pronunciation of some obscure ancient rune intertwined in a curious dance.

The sweet fragrance of apple pie, baked by his mother-in-law Monica, its edges caramelized to a perfect golden brown.

The boastful ramble of his father-in-law Wendell as he shared his treasured bottle of port, allegedly a gift from some Muggle noble.

And... that brown-haired girl, always bright-eyed, speaking at a breakneck pace, occasionally puffing her cheeks slightly at one of his teasing remarks, only to be drawn in by a new question the next moment.

So familiar, yet so... alien, leaving a hollow ache in his chest.

He stood before the red-brick villa. The afternoon sun gilded the tidy porch and blooming roses with a warm, golden edge.

Everything fit the contours of his "memory" seamlessly, yet it carried a rigid, icy texture—the texture of a "first encounter with reality."

Maybe... just one more look?

He couldn't resist pressing the doorbell, listening to the crisp sound echo inside. His heartbeat remained steady, without a single ripple.

Mrs. Granger opened the door, a gentle, slightly surprised smile on her face. "Hello, you are..."

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Granger." Caesar gave a slight bow, his posture impeccable, his voice steady and clear. "I am Caesar Dursley, Hermione's classmate at Hogwarts. I apologize for the intrusion."

"Caesar!" The surprise in Mrs. Granger's eyes instantly melted into a warm smile. "Hermione has mentioned you, Harry, and Ron many times! Please, come in! Wendell, it's one of Hermione's classmates from Hogwarts!"

In the study, Wendell Granger set down his medical journal and rose to greet him, his manner warm and genial.

The air was thick with the scent of old books, leather, and a faint trace of disinfectant.

The bookshelves were as crowded as ever, heavy Muggle tomes standing shoulder to shoulder with introductory texts from the wizarding world.

His gaze swept across the wide desk. Caesar could almost "see" Hermione, in the simulation, frowning as she wrestled with a complex ancient rune problem.

And he, sitting in the chair across from her, tapping his fingers absently on the armrest, casually offering the key hint.

Everything seemed to pulse in his memory, illuminating her focused profile.