*Knock*

Harry stirred in his sleep, the unfamiliar softness of a bed enveloping him like a gentle cocoon. He blinked awake, surprised to find that he wasn't staring at the underside of a staircase or wedged uncomfortably in his cupboard. Instead, he was lying flat on his back, arms spread wide, fully supported by a mattress that didn't creak or dip beneath his weight. As he came to, he became aware of the luxurious covers draped over him, heavier and warmer than any blanket he'd ever had, and he felt a strange, almost fragile comfort settle over him.

He took a long breath, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes lingering on the beautiful chandelier hanging above. The light caught on its crystal edges, casting soft glimmers across the room. It was like something out of a dream. He shifted slightly, catching sight of himself in the mirror opposite the bed. The pajamas he wore were a perfect fit, not baggy or worn like Dudley's hand-me-downs but tailored as if they had been made just for him.

'Clothes that fit…' he thought to himself, a small smile creeping onto his face. 'So this is what it's like.'

For most children, wearing clothes that fit was an everyday normality, something hardly worth thinking about. But for Harry, it felt like something magical, a kind of quiet kindness he had never known. The more he thought about it, the more he felt a warmth well up inside him, filling him in a way that felt both comforting and overwhelming. It was as if the room, the bed, even the clothes themselves were somehow telling him, You belong here.

A single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek before he could even recognize what he was feeling. It was a blend of happiness, relief, and a strange fear that all of this might vanish, that it was somehow too good to be true. 'What if this is just a dream?' he wondered, his chest tightening with the thought. He'd had good dreams before, but they always faded, leaving him back in the cramped darkness of his cupboard.

Just then, something caught his eye—a tray resting on a small table beside the bed. Curious, he sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, his bare toes touching the soft rug beneath him. He padded over to the table, rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eyes, and examined the tray. A plate of golden scrambled eggs, slices of warm, buttered toast, and a steaming cup of tea were waiting for him as if someone had known just what he'd need to start his day.

He picked up a fork, hesitating for a moment before taking a bite. The taste was warm and rich, the flavors simple but full. It was just eggs and toast, but there was something about it—something that made him feel like he was tasting food for the first time. He took another bite, and then another, the rhythm of eating almost hypnotic, like each mouthful was filling some empty space inside him. Before he knew it, he had finished everything, his plate empty, his stomach warm and full in a way he could hardly remember feeling.

"Is this… what it feels like to be… cared for?" he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible in the quiet room.

A comfortable warmth spread through his body, as if the food itself had left behind a little spark of kindness. He smiled, dismissing it as the effect of a "luxury meal," something he'd heard about but never experienced before. He placed his hand on his chest, feeling the warmth radiate, and allowed himself to savor the unfamiliar feeling of fullness, both in body and in spirit.

Once he'd finished his breakfast, he noticed a door leading to a small, well-equipped bathroom. The sight of it made him smile, and he decided to take advantage of the space. The shower was warm, the water falling over him in steady streams, and for the first time, he could take as long as he wanted, letting the warmth soak into his skin.

As he dried off, he glanced around the room and spotted the pile of clothes he'd brought from the Dursleys—Dudley's old, oversized shirt and trousers. He frowned, not wanting to wear them now, especially after experiencing the comfort of something that actually fit him.

Then, his eyes caught something new beside his belongings: a suitcase. It looked ordinary at first, but there was something subtly different about it, a faint shimmer along its edges. Curious, he moved closer and reached out to touch it, running his fingers along its surface. The suitcase felt warm and solid under his hand as if it were somehow more alive than an ordinary piece of luggage.

A small smile crept onto his face as he examined it. This was no ordinary suitcase. While it wasn't as advanced as the magical cases, like Newt Scamander's suitcase that could hold entire worlds inside, he could sense there was something unique about this one, as if it could carry far more than its size would suggest.

He hesitated, excitement bubbling up as he thought about opening it, but then something else caught his eye—clothes neatly folded beside the suitcase. Not Dudley's oversized hand-me-downs, but a clean, simple outfit that looked like it had been made just for him.

Harry reached out, touching the fabric. It was soft, comfortable, and best of all, exactly his size. His fingers traced the seams, feeling the stitching that held it together. For the second time that morning, he felt a strange fullness in his chest, a gratitude that he didn't quite have the words for. With a small, contented smile, he pulled on the outfit, marveling at how it fit perfectly. He stretched his arms, reveling in the freedom of movement, the feeling of clothes that didn't drag or bunch.

'This place…' he thought to himself. 'It's like it knows what I need before I do.'

Just as he finished dressing, a faint knocking sound echoed through the room, pulling him from his thoughts. But there was no one at the door; the sound was subtle, like an echo from somewhere far away. He glanced around, his curiosity growing. It was almost as if Avalon itself was letting him know that the morning had only just begun, that more surprises were waiting outside this door.

He stepped closer to the door, his heart beating with a quiet anticipation. This place felt like a mystery wrapped in kindness, a haven where he could experience a life he'd only ever dreamed of. A part of him was still hesitant, still worried that it was all too good to be true, but with each new discovery, his fear lessened, replaced by something soft and warm.

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Meanwhile, at Hogwarts

In the crisp morning air atop Hogwarts Castle's West Tower, a lone owl circled restlessly, clutching an important letter in its talons. Professor McGonagall stood beside Professor Dumbledore, her sharp gaze following the owl's flight with increasing concern.

"Albus, this isn't normal," she said, her voice taut. "That owl should have delivered the letter to Harry Potter, yet here it is, flying in circles."

Dumbledore nodded, his gaze thoughtful as he watched the owl's circular path. "It's as if… it cannot find him, Minerva. I had expected that this year would bring surprises, but this…" He trailed off, stroking his beard as he considered the implications.

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"Could he have… vanished?" McGonagall asked quietly, a hint of worry lacing her words.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving the owl's flight. "No," he replied at last, a hint of steel in his voice. "Harry is out there, somewhere. But he may be beyond the reach of our spells and charms… for now."

The two professors stood together in silence, their minds churning with questions and possibilities as the owl continued its restless circle, caught in an invisible boundary that seemed to hold it back from its destination.

As Dumbledore turned, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, a glint of curiosity sparking in his eyes. "It seems that Harry is more resourceful than we gave him credit for," he murmured, almost to himself.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "What do you suppose we do, then?"

"For now, we wait," Dumbledore replied, his gaze turning to the distant horizon. "And see what this new chapter has in store for us all."

"This simply won't do," McGonagall said, her jaw set in a determined line. "Albus, I cannot in good conscience stand here and do nothing. If Harry's whereabouts are unknown, then someone must check on him directly, to see if he's still with those… those people."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, understanding the worry that underpinned her words. "Very well, Minerva. But I trust you to be discreet. Given the circumstances, it would be best if you observed them without their knowledge."

McGonagall's lips tightened into a thin line. "I assure you, Albus, I'll be more than discreet. I'll take my Animagus form. They'll be none the wiser to my presence." And with that, she transformed, her black-and-gray striped form shrinking as her body morphed into that of a sleek, watchful tabby cat. She gave Dumbledore a curt nod, her eyes sharp and alert, before bounding down the tower steps and out toward Privet Drive.

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In the Dursleys' pristine kitchen, Petunia paced the floor, wringing her hands as she cast anxious glances at the empty cupboard beneath the stairs. It had been more than a day since Harry had last been seen, and the house was quieter than it had been in years. Vernon, for his part, was seated at the kitchen table, a deep scowl etched across his face, his fingers tapping against the tabletop in irritation.

"Petunia, will you calm down?" Vernon grumbled, his eyes following her restless movement. "He'll turn up sooner or later. Likely off causing trouble somewhere, or playing at being… unusual, as he does."

Petunia shot him a sharp look, her lips pressed tightly together. "Vernon, you don't understand," she whispered, glancing over her shoulder as if she half-expected to see Harry appear at any moment. "They left him here with us under very specific instructions. We promised—well, I promised—to keep him alive, as a bare minimum." Her voice dropped even lower. "You don't want to break an agreement with those 'weirdos', believe me."

At that, Vernon's face blanched ever so slightly. "Now, Petunia, let's be reasonable. We can't just go running off. What if he's out with some riffraff, just taking his time to come back? Leaving now would only look suspicious."

Petunia narrowed her eyes, her voice steely. "Suspicious, is it? What do you think they'll think of us if he doesn't turn up at all, Vernon? They'll come here, mark my words, asking all sorts of questions we don't want to answer."

Unbothered by his parents' fretting, Dudley sat at the table, happily munching his way through a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, and toast. His chubby fingers smeared butter across the tablecloth as he reached for yet another slice of toast, his attention focused solely on his food.

Finally, Petunia let out an exasperated sigh. "I think we should go somewhere remote. Maybe the lighthouse. Somewhere they wouldn't expect to find us, at least until this… this whole thing resolves itself."

Vernon's scowl deepened, but Petunia's insistence had started to wear down his resistance. "Fine, then," he grunted, clearly unhappy with the idea. "But we'll wait at least a day. If the boy hasn't turned up by tomorrow, we'll make arrangements."

Dudley, oblivious to his parents' increasingly frantic discussion, gave a loud, contented belch as he polished off the last of his breakfast, shoving his plate aside with a satisfied grunt.

Meanwhile outside, observing the Dursleys.

McGonagall crouched low beside a shrub outside the kitchen window, her tabby form blending seamlessly with the shadows. She watched as the Dursleys bickered, her sharp green eyes taking in every detail of the family's reaction to Harry's absence.

Her gaze softened with pity as she observed Petunia's clear discomfort, though any sympathy she felt quickly dissipated when she caught sight of Dudley's unaffected, greedy eating. His lack of concern and his parents' unwillingness to search for Harry confirmed her worst suspicions. These people were clearly neither equipped nor interested in caring for the boy.

'So they don't know where he is either,' she thought, her feline instincts sharpening with determination. 'And they certainly aren't worried about finding him.'

As the conversation inside continued, McGonagall's thoughts turned toward Harry, a boy she hadn't seen since the day they'd left him on the Dursleys' doorstep. Her heart ached as she imagined what he must have endured in the years since, a childhood devoid of kindness, filled only with neglect. And now, wherever he was, he had likely faced that hardship on his own.

After a few minutes, Petunia and Vernon's conversation quieted, their voices reduced to terse whispers, though McGonagall's sharp ears caught the gist. They were considering leaving the house to avoid any questions from wizards about Harry's whereabouts, an idea that left her shaking with indignation.

'Abandoning him would be a mercy compared to what they're putting him through now,' she thought bitterly.

With a soft hiss, she crept away from the window, her instincts driving her back to Hogwarts to report what she had seen. At least now they knew—Harry was missing, not just from the wizarding world but from the only home he'd known, however unkind it had been. She leaped over the low garden fence, disappearing into the shadows, her mind already piecing together what she would tell Dumbledore.

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Back at Hogwarts.

McGonagall arrived back at Hogwarts as the morning sun climbed higher, casting its warm light across the castle grounds. She reverted to her human form and hurried up to Dumbledore's office, her expression stern and her steps brisk. When she reached his office, she found him waiting, as if he had known precisely when she would arrive.

"Minerva," he greeted her calmly, though his eyes held a glint of concern. "What did you discover?"

McGonagall took a deep breath, composing herself before she replied. "Harry is missing from the Dursleys. They're in a state of panic—or at least Petunia is. She mentioned an agreement… a promise to keep him safe, though it seems they've only done the bare minimum to keep him alive. They don't know where he is, and from what I observed, they have no intention of looking for him. If anything, they're planning to… run."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, processing her report with a quiet intensity. "So, Harry has disappeared from under their watch, and even they are unaware of his whereabouts."

McGonagall's expression softened as she spoke. "Albus… it's worse than I feared. They showed no genuine concern for him, no sense of loss, not even an interest in finding him. The boy deserves so much more than to be ignored and left to fend for himself."

Dumbledore's gaze grew distant, his eyes clouded with thought. "It appears," he said softly, "that our young Harry has slipped beyond both worlds, hidden somewhere even we cannot reach. This may be for the best, Minerva, if only for now."

McGonagall's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Harry has likely found shelter elsewhere," Dumbledore replied, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes. "Perhaps even in a place that has sensed his need for kindness. If he is truly beyond our reach, then I must believe that someone or something is watching over him."

McGonagall hesitated but nodded, a reluctant understanding in her eyes. Though she still held reservations, Dumbledore's insight had a way of easing her mind. "If you believe he's safe… then I'll trust your judgment. But if anything changes—"

"We will be ready," Dumbledore assured her. "For now, all we can do is wait."

As McGonagall left the office, her mind remained heavy with thoughts of Harry. Somewhere out there, the boy was finding a new path, perhaps even discovering a place where he could finally experience the care and warmth he had been denied.

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Back in Avalon, Harry stood before the door, the suitcase at his feet, dressed in his new clothes, feeling as though a world of possibilities lay just beyond the threshold. The past few hours had felt like a dream, a place out of time where he could explore himself in ways he'd never thought possible. And as he reached for the door handle, he felt a sense of courage building in his chest, ready to face whatever else Avalon had in store for him.