Despair's Unexpected Savior: Chapter 1: Shifting Despair (Patreon)

Junko Enoshima forced a bright grin onto her face as she posed at the end of the catwalk, practically blinded by the camera flashes and the brilliant stage lights. The crowd roared with excitement, and she waved to them, pretending she wasn’t exhausted. Anyone would feel taxed at this point—this was her fourth runway show in a single day, after all. Her ankles were aching from the high-heeled torture devices strapped to her feet, and her head was pounding from the unrelenting cheers echoing all around her, but she kept her practiced smile firmly in place. While it was true that she genuinely loved her job—modeling provided plenty of adoration and attention, which she thrived on—she was craving a break. More than anything, she wanted to stroll along cobbled English streets, see the local sights, snap a few pictures, and maybe, just maybe, find someone deserving of her particular brand of mayhem. There was nothing quite like a bit of despair-infused excitement to soothe her own restless soul.

By the time she returned backstage after nearly two hours of strutting under hot lights and putting on airs for her fans, her brain was swirling with fantasies of silent, empty streets and the crisp chill of an English evening. She headed straight for her dressing room, ignoring the rest of the staff who still buzzed with that post-show energy. The second she walked in and shut the door behind her, she let out a massive sigh of relief—finally, a moment’s peace.

The bright overhead lights of the dressing room illuminated a large vanity mirror. Junko approached it, carefully removing the elaborate ribbons and the pins that had held her hair in the perfect style for the show. Her scalp tingled with relief once the tension disappeared, and she massaged her head gently, mindful not to smear her makeup too much. Then she swapped out the more ostentatious hair ornaments for her signature white-and-black Monokuma clips. Even the simple act of seeing those black and white bear ears in the mirror filled her with a touch of excitement—those same colors and that same style signaled the chaos of despair she lived for.

She had just tugged off a pair of tight bracelets and was in the middle of shaking out her stiff wrists when a knock sounded at the door. The noise sent a flicker of annoyance through her; she never got a long-enough break before being summoned somewhere else.

“Come in,” she called, her voice neutral and businesslike.

The door opened, revealing her England tour manager, Graham—a slim, congenial-looking man with short brown hair and an air of mild politeness that made Junko’s skin crawl. The sweet tone he always used was false, a complete veneer of respect and positivity, and the Ultimate Fashionista had never been one for fake smiles unless they were her own. She narrowed her eyes slightly at him.

“Ms. Enoshima,” Graham greeted, his voice as oily and cloying as ever. “That was your final show for today. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon now, so you have some free time to do as you please until six. We’ve arranged a dinner for you with some local dignitaries.”

Junko offered him a well-practiced, sugary smile. Her reflection in the mirror revealed a harsh glint in her eyes, but she smoothed it out before turning to face him fully. He might’ve been stationed by her agency to handle her affairs in England, but Junko was always suspicious of him—she had reason to be. She knew more about his nighttime escapades than he realized. Thanks to one of her Ultimate Despair subordinates, she had discovered that Graham was a killer himself, picking off random people and disposing of them after he’d had his sadistic fun. He thought he was careful; Junko had found his methods pitifully easy to trace, and it amused her that he truly believed she remained ignorant.

“That’s wonderful. Thanks for letting me know,” she replied, while internally considering how she might eventually dispose of him. Perhaps removing enough of his skin to keep him alive for a while, then dropping him into a vat of acid… The thought fueled her imagination with an explosion of cruelty. For now, though, she kept her sweet exterior.

“Of course,” he replied. His voice was like nails on a chalkboard. “Just make sure you’re back in time for dinner.”

Junko reached for her phone and slipped it into her pocket, giving him a dismissive nod. “Sure thing,” she said with a final, bright grin. “I’ll just be taking a walk to enjoy the sights until then.”

She brushed past him. Even that small moment gave her a thrill—he had no idea that she had evidence of his crimes, or that she was quietly plotting a nightmarish end for him. Yet that knowledge simmered beneath her polite smile. One day soon, she would feed him to his own darkest fears. In the meantime, she intended to enjoy her stroll around the area, glimpsing houses that looked identically plain to her fashion-forward eyes, exploring the less spectacular corners of the city.

She shook off her darker thoughts as she stepped out into the mild daylight. The sky was overcast, a typical English day, and she welcomed the calm breeze against her cheeks. The street wasn’t bustling like downtown London might be; it was a quieter, more unremarkable neighborhood. Still, there was a charm to it that she couldn’t deny. Even if she found it rather dull, the peace was a welcome break after the exhausting runway shows.

Junko had barely managed to stroll a couple of blocks, letting her eyes wander from picket fences to identical mailboxes, when she felt a sudden collision from behind. Something small slammed into the back of her legs with enough force to cause a jolt of pain in her calf.

Turning swiftly, she saw a child sprawled on the ground. He had dropped a large paper grocery bag, and a few apples had rolled out onto the pavement. She stared down at the boy and saw that he looked no older than six. Her first reflex was annoyance, but then she realized how small and frail he seemed. He had messy dark hair, and enormous, nervous green eyes that stared back at her. He was scrawny, wearing clothes that clearly didn’t fit, as if they were hand-me-downs several sizes too big.

The child quickly scrambled to pick up the apples, but his trembling hands struggled to gather them all at once. “Oh no,” she heard him mutter, “Aunt Petunia’s going to yell at me for this, and Uncle’s going to lock me in the cupboard again.” His voice was practically a whisper, but Junko’s keen ears caught every word. The mention of a cupboard made her bristle.

She crouched down, picking up one of the apples near her feet and placing it back in the bag. “Who are you, little boy?” she asked casually, even though her mind was already sparking with suspicion about his living situation.

The child froze, realizing she had overheard. “I-I’m H-Harry Potter, m-miss…” He stammered, eyes wide as if he expected her to lash out at him. She noticed a faint bruise under his sleeve when he shifted slightly.

“Harry Potter,” she repeated, nodding slowly. “Well, my name is Junko. What are you doing out here on your own?”

She handed him the recovered apples, placing them gently back into the bag. Though her tone sounded pleasant, her blood was beginning to run hot. She had an eerie knack for spotting abuse—after all, she had seen humanity’s darkest corners countless times. She recognized the fear in this kid’s eyes and the way he instinctively hunched his shoulders, as if expecting to be hit.

“I was…just bringing the shopping back to my aunt,” Harry explained in a tremulous voice, not meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry I bumped into you. I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey,” Junko cut him off softly, pressing a reassuring hand on his arm. She felt him flinch and realized she had inadvertently touched a bruise. “No need to apologize, and don’t be afraid. I don’t bite.”

But the boy seemed to notice her concern. Perhaps he feared her pity or her questions, because he suddenly lurched away from her, holding the grocery bag to his chest. “I—I gotta go, sorry!” With that, he turned and sprinted off with surprising speed for such a young child, heading down the street.

Junko stood, watching him dart away. She frowned. “That’s definitely not normal,” she muttered to herself, recalling the bruise that had lurked beneath his too-big sleeve. There was an unmistakable sign of ongoing harm there. Tucking her phone in her pocket, she reached down to pick up the last stray apple rolling along the curb. She polished it on her shirt, took a bite, and began to follow Harry at a distance.

It didn’t take long for her to find him again. He went straight to a perfectly ordinary house marked with the number four. Hiding herself behind a row of bushes, Junko watched the scene unfolding through a window. An older woman with a long, horse-like face screeched at Harry while wielding a frying pan. Junko felt her muscles tense. A spark of rage flared in her eyes when she saw the woman swing the pan, connecting with a sickening thud against the boy’s arm. From here, Junko couldn’t tell how badly he was hurt, but it was clear the pan was still hot and had burned him.

“HOW DARE YOU BURN A PERFECTLY GOOD DINNER!” the woman, presumably Aunt Petunia, roared at the child. “WE ASK YOU TO COOK AND EARN YOUR KEEP, AND THIS IS WHAT I FIND?! GET BACK IN YOUR CUPBOARD RIGHT NOW! YOU’LL NOT BE HAVING ANY BREAD FOR A WEEK, AND VERNON WILL HEAR ABOUT THIS!”

Junko’s heart pounded, her mind swirling with images of retribution. She took a deep breath to maintain her composure, though her hands twitched with barely restrained anger. She didn’t want to barge in there half-cocked. This needed to be planned carefully—both for the satisfaction of punishing the abusers and to ensure Harry wouldn’t be traumatized further by witnessing more violence. She planted a few hidden cameras she always kept on-hand (after all, she was Junko Enoshima—she never traveled unprepared). Now she would be able to monitor every cruel act carried out in the house. Petunia’s face, scowling in fury, was already set in Junko’s memory.

For the rest of that afternoon, she watched surreptitiously, capturing evidence of the woman’s behavior. Eventually, she slipped away to handle her own affairs, though she was itching for action. As night crept in, she sent an encrypted message to one of her subordinates: Deal with Graham. Here are the details of his execution. She attached the instructions on how to torture him properly. That small step improved her mood slightly—taking out scum like him was, after all, an act of twisted joy. But Petunia Dursley was next in line, and Junko’s mind reeled with possible punishments for her. Vernon, too, would pay. The question was merely how to arrange things so that Harry wouldn’t witness everything.

By noon the next day, Junko’s plan had fallen into place. She had snuck a Monokuma robot into the Dursley household. Controlling it remotely from her phone, she watched through the camera feed in the bear’s eye. She was seething at the new bruises she saw on Harry’s arms. Vernon Dursley had apparently taken his turn punishing the boy the night before. Junko wanted revenge, wanted it in a vile, savage way that would echo in the final screams of the abusers. But she also didn’t want Harry to see any of it—not if she intended to remove him safely from this place.

Today, Petunia was about to meet her end. Junko guided the robot in stealth mode, observing the right moment to frame Harry for a minor accident so Petunia would lock him in his cupboard again. It was horrific, but necessary to get the boy out of the way, to keep him from witnessing the violent comeuppance that Monokuma would deliver.

In the Dursley kitchen, the animatronic bear lifted a snow globe from a shelf and hurled it at a vase. The glass object shattered, sending shards flying across the kitchen floor. Petunia spun around, saw the broken vase, and immediately launched herself at Harry.

“YOU LITTLE FREAK! THAT WAS MY FAVORITE VASE! HOW DARE YOU BREAK IT!” she screeched, seizing Harry by the hair and dragging him down the hallway. “GET IN THERE, AND VERNON WILL HEAR ABOUT THIS AS WELL!”

Junko muted the audio for a moment, feeling her jaw tense. Even prepared as she was, it enraged her to watch Harry being manhandled. Still, her plan was in motion. Petunia shoved Harry into the cupboard and locked it, then stomped off to continue cleaning. Once the coast was clear, the Monokuma sneaked up to the cupboard door, slid a cup of water spiked with sleeping medication through the small grate in the door, and waited. Soon enough, Harry’s thirst got the better of him, and a few minutes later, Junko heard him drinking. Within several more minutes, the sound of his whimpering died down, replaced by the soft hush of sleep.

Now the house’s main occupant was alone and unsuspecting. Petunia cursed under her breath as she mopped up the broken glass, obviously in a foul mood. Junko’s sadistic grin returned. She resumed the audio feed and heard Petunia scolding under her breath about the chores she had to handle. The woman was so distracted that she never noticed the black-and-white bear waddling behind her, waiting for the perfect chance to strike.

Petunia eventually nearly tripped over the bear, which lay motionless on the floor like a child’s toy. “Honestly, toys these days,” she muttered, picking it up and placing it on the kitchen counter. She resumed washing dishes, ignoring the bear’s eerily smiling half-white, half-black face, until a loud thump made her spin around.

The Monokuma had ‘fallen’ from the counter again. Petunia clicked her tongue and replaced it. The second she returned to her dishes, the bear tipped over a second vase, shattering it on the floor. Furious, Petunia once again turned to clean up the shards. She set the bear upright again, but it lurched forward, making her catch it so it wouldn’t topple. By reflex, she squeezed its midsection, triggering a built-in voice feature.

“Hi, I’m Monokuma!” the bear chirped, sounding uncannily lifelike. Petunia stared at it, both amused and weirdly unsettled. She pressed the same spot again, half-curious. “Hi, I’m Monokuma!” repeated the animatronic, in the exact same cheerful tone. Petunia actually chuckled this time. It seemed so silly.

Until the tone shifted: “And you are a horse-faced bitch!”

Petunia blinked, baffled, and her eyebrows shot up. “What did you just say—?” She tried to hurl the bear away, but it latched onto her wrists with an unbreakable grip. She struggled, letting out a cry of panic. “Let me go, you horrid little—!”

“Hi, I’m Monokuma,” the toy repeated, its grin stretching across its face. “And I’m gonna blow up and kill you now.”

The bear’s body began beeping, like a ticking time bomb. Panicking, Petunia ran out the back door into the garden. She frantically scanned for a shovel or something that might pry the thing off her, but the beep grew faster and faster. She yanked open the door of a small storage shed, hoping to find a tool.

The beep suddenly stopped.

Petunia froze, thinking maybe the device had malfunctioned or run out of battery. The top of Monokuma’s head popped open, and a tiny flag burst out. The bear’s hold on her loosened enough for her to gasp for air. She glimpsed the word “Boom!” scrawled on the little banner. Monokuma giggled in that digital, almost playful tone. “Boom!” he repeated, as though delivering a punchline to some private joke.

Then the actual explosion tore through the backyard, turning the shed and Petunia both into a storm of debris. The entire garden was consumed by fire and smoke. A chunk of the shed’s roof clattered onto the lawn, followed by a severed arm landing with a wet thump in the street. A passing car promptly flattened it, the driver oblivious to what it was.

In her monitoring feed, Junko watched the entire scene with a grim smile of satisfaction. “That was one way to handle her,” she mumbled under her breath. She let out a hollow chuckle, leaning back in her chair. “Now, where’s Vernon…?”

Back in the remains of the Dursley house, the Monokuma calmly walked inside, stepping around splinters of wood and scraps of twisted metal. Upstairs, the child—Harry—remained asleep in the cupboard. Junko wanted to check on the boy, but she also had to ensure Vernon faced the excruciating end he deserved. The cameras revealed two bedrooms brimming with toys, presumably belonging to Harry’s cousin Dudley. But Junko’s real interest was the master bedroom, where Vernon and Petunia had slept. Monokuma checked beneath the bed and found exactly what it was searching for: a small red notebook labeled Freak Journal. It belonged to Vernon, apparently chronicling all the punishments he had inflicted upon Harry. Skimming through the pages, Monokuma—and by extension, Junko—found horrifyingly detailed notes on how Vernon had repeatedly tried to “knock the freakishness out” of the boy through violence and neglect.

Junko’s fingers curled tightly around her phone as she read the lines. Her normally playful grin twisted into an almost feral snarl. “You disgusting, vile pig,” she hissed, her voice low. She tapped in instructions for Monokuma: Prepare a special dinner for Mr. Dursley’s return. She wanted him sedated, tied up, and forced to suffer a slow, brutal demise. After all, the man had stolen the child’s safety and innocence. It was only fair that Junko remove his illusions of control and subject him to pure despair.

That evening, everything unfolded flawlessly. Vernon Dursley returned home from work and found a curious note on the table, apparently from Petunia, saying she had gone out. A plate of dinner waited for him. Unsuspecting, he ate, only to discover too late that the meal was laced with a potent sleeping agent. He slumped over in his chair, unconscious.

He woke up sometime later, bound and gagged. A monstrous headache pounded in his skull, and he squinted into the flickering light overhead, trying to make sense of his surroundings. He was in his living room, tied to a heavy wooden chair. In front of him stood the strange bear, half black, half white, with a maniacal grin. Before Vernon could even work up the breath to scream, Monokuma snapped one of his old sports trophies in half, scattering metal shards across the floor.

Monokuma reached for Vernon’s beloved wedding tux next, tossing it on the ground and torching it with a small flamethrower. The white-hot flames ate away at the fabric in seconds. Vernon, helpless, let out muffled screams behind his gag. He shook his head wildly, tears of rage and terror forming in his eyes.

“Aww, you don’t like that?” Monokuma teased, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Well, maybe I can make you feel better.” It pulled out Dudley’s baby book next, systematically ripping the photographs to shreds. Vernon howled in despair, though his words remained unintelligible through the gag.

Monokuma then produced a cricket bat and a frying pan—household items turned instruments of torture. “Let’s start small, shall we?” the bear giggled. With mechanical strength, it jerked Vernon upright, pressing his face directly against the open flame of the stove. The man’s screams filled the air as his skin blistered and burned. Junko watched through the camera feed, her arms crossed, refusing to blink as her hatred for abusers spurred her on. Monokuma pulled Vernon away eventually, peeling away bits of scorched skin in the process. The smell turned the bear’s grin into a sneer.

“Eww, you still reek,” Monokuma complained. “Let’s try another cooking method.” It brandished two tasers, jamming them against the nerve clusters across Vernon’s torso and between his legs. Sparks flew, and Vernon’s body convulsed in agony. This continued for what felt like an eternity to him, but in reality, it was only a few minutes of electric torture.

At one point, Monokuma blindfolded itself playfully and began throwing knives at Vernon as though he were a human dartboard. One blade clipped off a finger, another embedded itself in his calf, and a third narrowly missed his jugular. The man’s muffled screams rose and fell, frantic and hideous, until he nearly lost consciousness from the pain.

But every time he passed out, Monokuma revived him. Dragging him by the hair, it hauled him up the stairs and shoved him back down, cackling as the man’s body thudded painfully to the floor. Another wave of agony shot through him as his face smacked the wooden steps.

Eventually, when Vernon opened his eyes again, Monokuma was crouched over him, holding a pair of pliers. “That hair of yours is unsightly,” the bear teased. Vernon tried to shake his head, but he was too weak to resist. Monokuma seized chunks of his hair, ripping them out along with pieces of scalp. Blood trickled down the man’s temples, and he almost blacked out again.

The torture continued in unrelenting waves. Monokuma then shoved him into a deep freezer for a while—letting him scream silently as the cold gnawed at his raw wounds. It was only after his lips turned blue, and his body trembled with hypothermia, that the bear pulled him out, confining him to a pitch-black cell that somehow existed in the space of that house (in reality, it was a cunning usage of illusions and the leftover cracks in the dimension of despair, courtesy of Junko’s technology. She always had a flair for theatrical cruelty).

Hours, or perhaps days, seemed to pass in Vernon’s mind. He was starving, delirious, and so certain he would die at any second. Finally, Monokuma returned, forcibly pouring a mixture of volatile chemicals down Vernon’s throat. The reaction was immediate—his stomach roiled, burning from the inside out. His belly swelled unnaturally, and after seconds of unimaginable agony, it ruptured, ending his life in a spray of gore.

Junko closed the feed and exhaled slowly, the red haze of rage lifting from her eyes. The abusers were gone. The boy’s tormenters were no more. She snapped back to the present, reminding herself that her next step was critical—removing Harry from this house before anyone, such as a nosy neighbor, discovered the wreckage or alerted the authorities. She also knew the small boy needed serious medical attention. If the aunt and uncle had inflicted so many injuries before, it was certain that he had an array of untreated wounds and possibly some broken bones.

Standing, Junko ignored her phone’s vibration at first. When she finally glanced at it, she saw a message from Akane Owari, one of her more…energetic subordinates. It’s done. I’ve sent you a clip of the execution—Akane. Junko opened the clip briefly and saw her ex-manager Graham shrieking in agony, partially stripped of his skin, immersed in a slow-acting acid. The corners of Junko’s mouth lifted. Two abusers down, plus one vile manager. Not a bad day’s work. She flicked off the video and stuffed her phone into her pocket.

A quick word to her chauffeur had the car brought around. She hurried outside, telling the driver not to ask questions. He tried to speak, but she cut him off with a sharp glare. “Excuse me, but do I pay you to question me, or do I pay you to drive? Let’s go, now.”

“R-right…” he stammered, confusion evident on his face.

The ride felt like an eternity, though it was only a few minutes. Junko stared out the window, her mind fixated on the child she had left sleeping in that horrific cupboard. She recalled the lacerations on his arms and the bruises on his back, and she felt an uncommon pang of genuine outrage. While she was a connoisseur of despair, she found child abuse to be the lowest form of cruelty—children couldn’t fight back, couldn’t even truly understand why they were being tortured. There was no twisted art in it, only sick opportunism. She would never find glee in such a scenario. She wanted it ended.

When they arrived at Privet Drive, Junko forced the chauffeur to distract himself. “Go play Flappy Bird or something,” she snapped, her voice brimming with tension. “Don’t get out of the car.”

He looked at her as though wanting to protest. “But—”

“Do not question me right now,” she hissed. “I’m not in the mood.”

He sank lower in the driver’s seat. “Fine, I’ll stay.”

Junko hurried around the block, carefully entering the house. Smoke still lingered in the ruined backyard, but that explosion had been somewhat contained. The neighbors either hadn’t noticed or had decided to ignore it, possibly used to the sounds of banging and yelling from the Dursley house. The front door was slightly ajar. Her Monokuma awaited her in the hallway, motionless, disguised as a simple plush. She dismissed it with a wave of her hand, sending the instructions through her phone to power it down. She didn’t want Harry to see the bear; that would surely traumatize him further.

At last, she reached the cupboard under the stairs. The lock had been left undone after Monokuma’s tampering, so she opened it gently. What she saw inside made her gasp in genuine horror. Harry, still asleep from the medication, was curled on the tiny floor, his baggy clothes offering no cushion or warmth. She spotted infected burns, open cuts, bruises in all stages of healing, and to her dismay, one leg was obviously broken and badly set, if it had been set at all. The stench of old blood and infection hit her immediately. She realized that had the uncle or aunt been left alive any longer, they might have easily killed the boy.

“Oh my God,” Junko whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. She felt a rare flutter of pity—something that didn’t come easily to her. This was beyond mere cruelty. This was monstrous. She gently lifted the boy, cringing when she heard him let out a faint groan. He was still deeply unconscious, but the slightest jostle made him wince.

“Just hang in there…” she murmured, voice soft against his ear. The next step was to get him outside without alerting the chauffeur. She didn’t need him asking questions or panicking about a bloody child. She signaled to the Monokuma robot, which waddled off to the car first. The driver was immersed in his phone game, exactly as instructed.

“Go on,” Junko whispered to the bear. “Knock him out if he looks up. We’re driving to the hospital, fast.”

Monokuma approached silently and, with an almost comical little karate chop, knocked the unsuspecting chauffeur unconscious. The man slumped forward against the steering wheel, and the keys tumbled to the floor. The robot dragged him out with its enhanced strength, crammed him in the trunk, and shut it. Then it scrambled into the driver’s seat itself, adjusting the seat to accommodate its small stature.

“Ugh, I guess that works,” Junko mumbled, stepping outside and locking the door behind her. She felt an odd pang of finality, looking at the house with the shattered windows and blasted backyard. This was the site of so much suffering, and now it was also a tomb for the abusers. “Enjoy your afterlife, you rotten scumbags,” she hissed. She then climbed into the back seat with Harry cradled against her, mindful of his injuries.

Monokuma started the engine. They sped away from Privet Drive, heading toward St. Mary’s Hospital, a relatively short drive away. Junko gently stroked the boy’s cheek, relieved that he was still breathing steadily. “You’re lucky I showed up before they killed you…” she said, voice low enough that only she and perhaps the half-conscious child could hear.

The drive was tense but quick. Monokuma squealed the tires to a stop outside the hospital’s entrance. Then it instantly leapt over the center console to the passenger seat, where it became immobile again—just a weird plush toy. Junko carefully lifted Harry and hurried toward the glass double doors of the hospital, trying not to draw too much attention.

A nurse stationed near the entrance saw the boy in Junko’s arms and rushed over, eyes wide. “Oh dear Lord,” the nurse gasped. “What happened to this child?”

Junko forced a frantic expression onto her face—though it wasn’t all that difficult given the situation. “I found him…on the street…he was injured, unconscious,” she lied with an uncharacteristically shaky voice. Her genuine concern for the boy helped her performance. “Please, help him.”

Immediately, hospital staff came with a gurney. Junko laid Harry onto it, stepping aside as they examined him. A doctor barked orders. The nurse hastily took vitals, calling for more medical personnel. One nurse questioned Junko a bit further, but she pretended she didn’t know him, feigning that she was a passerby who had found him collapsed. The staff was far too busy saving the boy’s life to press her too hard.

As they wheeled him away, Junko considered her next move. Even if Harry survived, the question remained: Where would he go next? He had no parents, no guardians left—at least none that didn’t deserve to die. And beyond that, there was something about him that intrigued her… She recalled the name “Harry Potter,” the rumors about a child who survived something strange. She wasn’t particularly interested in the wizarding world—she wasn’t even certain of its existence—but a faint recollection tickled her memory. She had once overheard talk about a child in the UK who was special, but she’d dismissed it as typical rumor mill nonsense. Still, the fact that these relatives had referred to him as a “freak” repeatedly suggested something unusual.

She decided that, for the time being, her priority was ensuring the child’s health and safety. Then she would figure out what to do with him. She tapped a quick message on her phone to set up watchers. If any social services or suspicious authorities showed up, Junko wanted to know immediately. Possibly, if everything went smoothly, she might gain custody of him herself—though that was an amusingly mundane approach. Still, having a vulnerable child under her care could open unique possibilities. And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to see if he could experience something besides pain.

The hospital’s waiting room was stark and cold, all too bright under fluorescent lights. Junko sank into one of the plastic seats, ignoring the stares of onlookers who recognized her as the famous model. She kept her Monokuma plush on her lap, playing with its ears absently. It was powered down, but she could tell that a few of the curious passersby found it odd. “Just a toy,” she said dismissively to the nurse who gave it a curious look.

She had no idea how long it would take for the doctors to treat Harry. The injuries were extensive, and given his age, the staff would have a lot of carefully orchestrated steps to go through. Junko also suspected the nurses and doctors would want to contact local authorities about a severely abused child. That was something she would have to handle quickly. She refused to let the boy vanish into the broken system where he might just be shoved from one incompetent caretaker to another. She would see to it that the official story allowed her to have him.

Hours passed. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each minute dragging. From time to time, Junko’s phone buzzed with updates from her subordinates: Graham’s remains had been disposed of properly, dinner at six was canceled, suspicious police activity near Privet Drive was being monitored. She ignored most of it, waiting with an unusual level of tension swirling in her stomach. Finally, as the neon digits on the clock read well past five in the afternoon, a nurse approached her.

“Are you here for the boy, Ms.…” The nurse trailed off uncertainly.

“Enoshima,” Junko replied. “Yes, I am. Is he…?”

“He’s stable,” the nurse assured quickly. “But he’ll need extensive care. Multiple fractures, signs of malnutrition, severe bruising… There’s a lot. We’d also like to question you about how exactly you found him.”

Junko nodded, letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Is it okay if I see him?”

The nurse hesitated, glancing around. “Well, typically we’d require a guardian or relative, but the situation is…unusual. No other family is listed. We’re looking into the matter now. He’s in a private room for the moment. Please, follow me.”

They walked down a hallway with gleaming white tiles. The sanitized smell of chemicals hung in the air, just like any other hospital. Finally, they stopped at a door with large windows that allowed staff to peer inside. Junko saw Harry, swathed in bandages. He had an IV drip in his arm. He looked small, dwarfed by the hospital bed.

Gently, Junko pushed the door open, stepping inside. Her eyes softened, seeing the pale, unconscious face of the boy. “Hey,” she greeted quietly, even though he was still out. She approached the edge of the bed, noticing the machine that beeped steadily with his heartbeat. “That’s good,” she said softly, more to herself than him. “Your heart’s still going strong.”

A male doctor entered. “Ms. Enoshima, I presume? I’m Dr. Stevenson. I heard you’re the one who brought the boy here. Could you tell me anything about him—his address, or how he ended up like this?”

Junko’s face was a perfect mask of concern. She wasn’t about to reveal the entire story. “I don’t know him personally,” she replied, letting her voice tremble a bit. “I just found him outside, near…He was collapsed on the sidewalk, bruised, and unconscious. I panicked and brought him straight here. I’m a foreigner, so I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry I can’t be more help. But I want to make sure he’s taken care of.”

“We appreciate that,” the doctor said kindly. “We’re contacting child protective services. Typically, they’ll open an investigation. We want to find out who did this to him. Are you absolutely sure you don’t know anything else about him?”

He gave her a probing look, one that suggested he suspected more was going on. Junko gave him a sorrowful, wide-eyed gaze. “I’m sorry. I really wish I could help.”

“All right,” the doctor conceded. “If you remember anything else, please let us know. For now, we’ll keep him under observation. He’s going to need a series of surgeries, but first we’re stabilizing his condition.”

The man left, and Junko exhaled. She stared at Harry’s small body. Bandages covered his arms, and some areas of raw burns were covered in gauze. An uncomfortable swirl of anger and pity churned in her gut. “You survived something no child should have to endure,” she whispered. “I guess that means you’re stronger than they knew.”

She had no desire to keep waiting passively. Reaching into her phone, she sent a message to one of her subordinates skilled in forging documents. If they could slip something into the system that indicated Junko was a designated caretaker for the boy—an old arrangement, perhaps something about parents leaving instructions in an obscure will—well, that might be enough to get him out of here under her watch. She had done many unscrupulous things in her life, but forging guardianship was hardly the darkest of them.

Within half an hour, she received a confirmation text: Working on it. Give me a few hours. Good. That meant she should remain at Harry’s side. The hours passed slowly. Nurses came and went, adjusting his IV, checking his vitals. Junko stepped aside politely, sometimes stepping into the hall to watch from the window. She made a few calls in hushed tones, ensuring that no meddling relatives could come forward. Not that the Dursleys could, but there might be extended family or meddlesome neighbors. She wanted all potential roadblocks removed.

By the time child protective services arrived, late in the evening, Junko’s forgeries had begun to take shape. A thin, tired-looking woman with spectacles introduced herself as Ms. Shaw. She explained the office’s standard procedure for abused children. Junko, adopting her best “anxious caretaker” persona, listened attentively, nodding at all the right moments. Ms. Shaw indicated they were searching for any living relatives, but if none emerged, the boy would be placed in the foster system. This prompted Junko to produce her carefully fabricated documents: a letter stating that Harry’s parents had left instructions in an obscure arrangement if anything ever happened to his guardians. The signature matched that of James Potter—courtesy of Junko’s skilled forgers—and it named Junko Enoshima as a potential caretaker.

Ms. Shaw blinked in confusion at the unusual nature of the letter. “I see… This is most irregular. But if it’s legitimate, we’ll have to process it. We’ll need time to verify, of course.”

“Of course,” Junko agreed, feigning calm. Inside, she was smirking. Her subordinate’s forgeries were seldom questioned, and even if they were, any deeper official checks would run into bureaucratic sabotage from her Despair connections. She had ways to ensure the documents stuck.

It was nearly midnight when Ms. Shaw finished her initial assessment. “Well, Ms. Enoshima, provided this is all verified, you may be named the boy’s temporary guardian. But he will remain in the hospital for some time. Once he’s stable, we can arrange a more official handover. In the meantime, we’ll proceed with the investigation. I’ll be in touch.”

Junko nodded, offering a grateful smile that genuinely felt unusual on her face. She was used to smirking or leering, but a genuine sense of relief flickered in her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

The social worker left, and Junko lingered outside Harry’s room. The nurses suggested she go get some rest, but she refused to leave. She settled onto one of the uncomfortable chairs in the hallway, resting her head back against the wall. Her Monokuma plush sat in her lap as always, though she kept it powered down. Occasionally, she dozed off, only to jerk awake and peer through the window at Harry’s still form.

Before dawn, a nurse gave her an update: Harry was responding to the intravenous antibiotics. His fever had lowered, and though he remained unconscious, his vitals were improving. She might be able to see him face-to-face when he woke.

Junko pressed her lips together in a thin line, nodding. “Thank you for letting me know,” she said.

Hours passed. At one point, her phone buzzed again—more updates about the fiasco at Privet Drive. The place was half-destroyed, but apparently, Dudley Dursley had returned from a friend’s house to find his parents missing and the backyard in shambles. Police had begun investigating. They had found no trace of the bodies. Junko’s subordinates had quietly removed the mangled remains, leaving behind an explosion that authorities were attributing to a faulty gas line or something equally mundane. As for Vernon’s twisted remains inside the house, well, that too had vanished under the thorough cleanup orchestrated by Ultimate Despair. By the time the press got wind of it, the official story would be that Petunia and Vernon had died in a freak accident. Dudley would be placed in care. Junko smirked. If Dudley was half as abusive as his parents, she might take care of him, too. But from the glimpses she’d seen, he was simply a spoiled child who might yet be too young to hold real accountability. She had decided to spare him for now.

When morning finally painted the horizon in pale pink and yellow hues, Junko stood at the window, watching the subtle changes in Harry’s expression. He seemed to be stirring. A faint groan escaped his lips, and the nurse rushed in, adjusting the monitors.

“Harry,” Junko said softly, stepping forward. “Harry, can you hear me?”

His eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. Those green eyes looked confused, darting around the unfamiliar room. He tried to shift in bed, but pain contorted his face immediately.

“Don’t move too much,” the nurse cautioned. “You’ve been through a lot. Give yourself time to recover.” She pulled the IV line to a more comfortable angle.

Harry swallowed, wincing. When his gaze landed on Junko, something akin to recognition sparked, though it was fleeting. He parted his lips. “Y-you’re…that lady…” he whispered. His voice was raspy, as though he hadn’t had water in days.

“That’s right,” Junko replied, stepping closer so he could see her more clearly. “My name is Junko. I found you and brought you here.”

He closed his eyes, as if overwhelmed. “I—I don’t remember much.” His brow creased. “Where’s Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon?”

Junko’s jaw tensed slightly. She forced a gentle expression. “They…won’t be bothering you anymore,” she said, keeping her voice low. “You’re safe. Just focus on getting better.” Her tone left no room for questions, but the subtle tremor in her words told Harry enough. A flicker of fear—perhaps fear of the unknown—shone in his eyes. She tried to smile. “Don’t worry about them.”

He stared at the ceiling, confusion swirling in his gaze. “But…where will I go?”

Junko looked to the nurse, who offered a small, supportive nod and then left them to talk privately. Sitting on a chair at Harry’s bedside, Junko reached out slowly and took his hand. He flinched a bit, but she only gave him a gentle squeeze. “You’re going to be okay. The hospital will take care of you for now, and then…we’ll figure something out.”

Harry blinked back tears. He looked so fragile, half-broken physically, and the emotional wounds were no doubt deeper. Junko felt an odd sense of protective anger. How many people had turned a blind eye to this kid’s abuse? The neighbors must have noticed something. The school might have seen signs. Yet apparently, no one had stepped in.

As if sensing his train of thought, Harry swallowed again and said, “No one’s ever tried to help me before.”

Junko’s lips curved into a pained smirk. “I guess I’m not like other people,” she said quietly.

Harry nodded, but exhaustion and the medication seemed to be pulling him under once more. His eyes slid shut, and he mumbled something unintelligible. Junko noticed the nurse returning, probably to check vitals again. She stood, stepping back to let the woman do her job.

Over the next several days, the boy had moments of consciousness, but he drifted in and out of sleep, still healing. Each time he stirred, Junko tried to provide gentle reassurance. Child protective services also visited, but with the forged documents, the wheels were in motion for Junko to gain temporary guardianship. No relatives had stepped forward. The official story was that Petunia and Vernon Dursley had perished in an explosion, leaving Harry an orphan with no living extended family. Ms. Shaw eventually returned with the news that, pending final paperwork, Harry would be released into Junko’s care once he was well enough.

“Thank you,” Junko said, faking a tearful smile, though there was a kernel of genuine relief laced with her performance. “I just want what’s best for him.”

Ms. Shaw gave a weary nod. “We appreciate that, Ms. Enoshima. The boy is quite lucky you found him.” She paused. “Do you…happen to know anything about his parents, by chance? This letter is so unusual, and I—”

“I’m afraid not,” Junko cut in gently. “I was given the letter through a friend a while ago. I never even met the Potters.” Not a lie, strictly speaking. She had never met them; from what she understood, they had died long ago.

Ms. Shaw accepted the response with only mild skepticism. “Well, in any case, as soon as he’s cleared for discharge, we’ll finalize the arrangements.” She took her leave.

Left alone in the hallway, Junko felt a small wave of excitement swirl in her chest. She usually only felt such a thrill when she was orchestrating despair. This was different—almost akin to the satisfaction of rescuing a valuable item from the trash. That might have sounded callous, but she was honest with herself. She saw potential in Harry, potential for something great or terrible. And yes, she intended to shape that potential in whatever direction pleased her. The Dursleys, in a twisted sense, had jumpstarted the child’s familiarity with cruelty. If anyone knew how to navigate despair, it was Junko. Perhaps she could do something with him—someone who had seen the darkest side of family. Would he cling to hope in the end, or would he become a vessel for despair?

She didn’t know yet, and that was part of the thrill.

A week passed. Harry’s condition improved significantly thanks to proper medical care, antibiotics, casts for his broken bones, and nutritious meals that quickly mitigated his malnourishment. He was still pale and easily fatigued, but the doctors marveled at how quickly he healed, as if he had an unnatural resilience. Junko observed this with keen interest, suspecting there was more to Harry’s story than even the average bystander might guess.

Finally, the day arrived when Dr. Stevenson came into the room with a satisfied smile. “Harry, you’re doing well enough that we can release you in a few days, provided you have a safe place to recover. Ms. Enoshima has agreed to take you in, correct?”

Harry lay propped up on pillows, a bandage still wrapped around his head, his right arm and left leg in casts. He looked small but determined. “Yes,” he answered softly, glancing at Junko. He didn’t fully understand her intentions, but she had been nothing but kind to him, showing up every day, sometimes with small gifts like puzzle books or candy. Certainly, she was better than the Dursleys.

After the doctor left, Junko approached his bedside. “Looks like you’ll be coming with me soon,” she said, flashing a bright smile that might have seemed incongruous with her usual persona if he had known her better.

Harry studied her face, as though searching for deception, but he found none that he could discern. He only saw a strange woman who wore striking clothes—though she’d kept a low profile in the hospital, not wanting to draw too much attention—and who had half of her hair pinned with a black-and-white bear clip. It was peculiar, but not frightening. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

Junko nodded. “You don’t have to thank me,” she replied, though a part of her felt a secret gratification at the gratitude. She quickly changed the subject. “Hey, so…do you like dogs?” She had no idea why that question sprang to mind, but she was testing the waters of normal conversation.

Harry blinked. “I…I’m not sure. I never really had a pet. Dudley had a lot of stuff, but not a dog. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t let me near animals at the park.”

Junko’s lips thinned. “Those scumbags,” she mumbled. Then her voice brightened. “Well, maybe we can arrange something once you’re settled.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay,” he whispered.

The next few days were a flurry of official forms, final checkups, and quiet conversation. Child protective services completed their final sign-off. The hospital staff gave Harry a wheelchair, though he could walk with crutches on his good leg if necessary. He still had a cast on his broken limb, and the doctors instructed him on how to care for it. He would need to come back for scheduled appointments, and the hospital arranged for a nurse to visit him occasionally to check his progress. All normal procedure for a child in his condition.

Finally, the day came. Junko arrived with a set of clothes that actually fit Harry—no more oversized hand-me-downs that smelled musty. She also brought along a pair of new shoes. He put them on gingerly, astonished that they were brand new and just his size. She noticed his amazed expression and gave him a subtle grin.

“Ready to go?” she asked.

Harry swallowed, glancing around the room that had served as both his sanctuary and prison while he recovered. “Yes,” he said, though he sounded uncertain.

They were about to leave the hospital when one of the nurses approached them. “Just a moment, Ms. Enoshima,” the woman said with a polite smile. “Harry’s belongings—what little he had—are here.” She handed over a small plastic bag containing the worn-out clothing he’d arrived in, plus a tattered old blanket that might have belonged to him at some point.

“Thank you,” Junko said, taking the bag. Harry stared at it, looking a little haunted. She gently nudged him with her elbow, and he looked up at her. “We can get rid of them if you want,” she offered softly.

He thought about it, then shook his head. “Maybe… keep the blanket. The clothes, I don’t need.” Something in his eyes suggested the blanket held sentimental value. It was tattered and burnt at the edges, but it might have been the only thing that had ever comforted him. Junko nodded and slipped it into a nicer-looking shopping bag.

They continued out into the midday sunlight. A sleek black car waited at the curb. A uniformed man stood by the rear door. He wasn’t the same driver who’d ended up knocked out in the trunk—Junko had replaced him. This driver, a graying older fellow, opened the back door with a respectful gesture. Junko guided Harry inside, helping him settle with his cast. Then she slid in next to him.

Once the driver closed the door and started the engine, Harry looked around, eyes wide at the luxurious interior. “Is this your car?” he asked, voice tinged with surprise.

Junko shrugged as if it was no big deal. “Sure is. One of them, anyway.” She gave him a sideways grin. “You’ll get used to it.”

He shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to ask more questions. But he couldn’t hide his curiosity. Finally, he murmured, “You’re… really rich, aren’t you?”

She let out a small laugh. “You could say that. I’m a model, you know. And a fashion designer too, sometimes. I travel a lot.”

Harry nodded slowly. He had no frame of reference for that sort of lifestyle. The Dursleys had kept him from most normal experiences, so the idea of traveling the world seemed impossibly glamorous. “Thank you for taking me in,” he repeated.

“Hey, it’s no problem.” She leaned back, fiddling with one of her Monokuma hair clips. “So, for now, we’ll go to a place I’m staying at in London. It’s sort of a fancy suite in a high-rise building. We’ll get you set up there until you recover. After that…” She hesitated, a swirl of half-formed ideas crossing her mind. “We’ll figure out a more permanent arrangement, okay?”

Harry looked out the window, eyes wide as the car pulled away from the hospital. The streets of London were bustling—red buses, black cabs, crowds of people on sidewalks. He’d rarely ventured anywhere beyond Privet Drive except for going to primary school. The immensity of it all made him shrink back in his seat. But at the same time, it was exciting to realize he could see a new side of life, free from the cupboard under the stairs.

Eventually, the car merged into heavier traffic, then turned onto a tree-lined street. They pulled into a discreet underground parking garage beneath a modern, upscale apartment complex. The driver swiped a keycard, and the gates slid open, revealing private parking spaces. He parked near an elevator lobby, then stepped out to help them.

Junko got out, carefully assisting Harry, making sure his cast didn’t bump against the car door. They entered the elevator, and the quiet hum of the machinery enveloped them as they ascended. Harry felt a bit dizzy—he’d certainly never been in a place this nice. Junko pressed a button labeled “PH” for penthouse. He stared at the console. “Is that the top floor?” he asked softly.

“Yup,” she said, a hint of pride creeping into her grin. “I like having a good view.”

The elevator opened into a stylish foyer with sleek marble floors and a minimalist décor. Harry followed Junko, stepping gingerly with his crutches. Another door opened with a code Junko input on a panel, and they entered a large, well-lit living area with floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the skyline of London sprawled, lit by the afternoon sun.

Harry’s eyes darted around, taking in the plush furniture, the futuristic-looking kitchen in the corner, and the polished hardwood floors. He felt a bit overwhelmed—this was a world so far removed from the dusty, cramped cupboard that he felt he might be dreaming.

“All right, we’ll get you settled,” Junko announced, setting down the bag with his blanket. She called out, “Akane? You here?”

A woman with a tan complexion and a lean, muscular build emerged from a side door. She wore casual clothes, her hair spiky and disheveled. She had a fierce look in her eyes. “I’m here. I, uh, cleaned the place up a bit.” Then she saw Harry. “Oh, so this is the kid, huh?”

Harry shrank behind Junko slightly, unsure. He noticed the woman’s intense gaze, but Junko stepped aside with a soft laugh. “Akane, this is Harry. Harry, this is Akane Owari.” She winked. “She’s sort of my…colleague.”

Akane nodded, crossing her arms. “He’s so skinny. Someone get him some real food.”

A sudden wave of hunger hit Harry at those words—hospital food had been the best he’d had in ages, but it was still hospital fare. Junko’s lips quirked. “You heard her. Let’s get you something to eat.”

They moved toward the kitchen. Akane rummaged in the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients. A sizzling pan soon followed. While she cooked, Junko guided Harry to a chair at the kitchen island, where he could sit comfortably without straining his broken leg. He tried to keep quiet, but he couldn’t help noticing how casually these people talked about things that had once been unthinkable—like whipping up a hearty meal in a lavish penthouse.

“So,” Akane said, flipping something in the pan, “I heard you took care of that manager guy. Good riddance. Graham was scum.”

Harry blinked, not understanding the subtext. Junko simply gave a tight-lipped smile. “Yep. Confirmed last night.”

Akane grunted in approval. Then, as if remembering the kid was present, she dropped the subject. She served a plate of steaming food—scrambled eggs, diced potatoes, and bits of sausage. She placed it in front of Harry with a casual nod. “Eat up, kid.”

Harry stared at the plate. It smelled incredible, warm and savory. A pang of hesitation twisted in his chest. At the Dursleys’, he’d never been allowed to eat before the rest of them finished, and sometimes there wasn’t anything left. He glanced uncertainly at Junko, who gave him a gentle nod.

“You can eat as much as you want,” she said, reading his thoughts.

Slowly, Harry took a tentative bite. The flavor made his eyes widen. He ate more quickly after that, spurred on by the realization that no one was going to stop him. Junko and Akane watched, the latter leaning on the counter with mild curiosity.

When he was finished, Harry placed his fork down, looking shy. “Thank you,” he said. “That was…really good.”

“Of course it was,” Akane said, grinning toothily. “I’m awesome at cooking, when it’s simple enough.”

Junko gave Harry a small pat on the shoulder. “Let’s get you to your room. You can rest, and later we’ll figure out a daily routine for you—what time you’ll wake up, your meals, the physical therapy you’ll need for that broken leg. Stuff like that.”

They led him down a short hallway to a guest room, which was about the size of the Dursleys’ entire living room. It had a large bed covered with a soft, dark comforter, and tall windows overlooking the skyline. Harry stared in disbelief.

“This is…for me?” he asked, voice trembling with a combination of astonishment and worry. He half-expected it to be a trick.

“Yes,” Junko replied. Her tone was simple, almost matter-of-fact. “It’s all yours.” She helped him settle on the bed, adjusting pillows around his cast. “Is that comfortable enough?”

He nodded, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He quickly wiped them away, not wanting to cry in front of these strangers who had suddenly become something akin to guardians. “Thank you.”

Junko smiled, then placed the tattered blanket from the Dursleys’ house on the foot of the bed. “In case you still want it,” she murmured. “Sometimes familiar things help.”

Harry stared at the blanket, a swirl of conflicting emotions flooding him. Part of him despised that scrap of cloth—it reminded him of the cupboard. But it was also the only possession he could call his own from that place. He gave Junko a small nod of thanks.

She nodded in return. “Get some rest,” she said, standing. “I’ll be in the living area if you need anything. Don’t be afraid to holler. Akane might be rude, but she’ll help too.”

From the hallway, Harry heard Akane’s voice. “Oi, I heard that!” Despite her protest, her tone held a hint of warmth.

Junko rolled her eyes good-naturedly and stepped out, closing the door gently behind her. She and Akane walked back into the main living area, where the city lights were beginning to flicker on as dusk approached. The atmosphere in the penthouse felt oddly calm, a hush over it as if they were in a bubble separate from the rest of the world.

“You really are letting the kid stay,” Akane said, leaning against the wall. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

Junko shrugged. “Why not? It’s convenient for now. And he’s… interesting.” She tried to hide the genuine care that had snuck into her voice. “Besides, I couldn’t leave him to the system. He’s been through enough.”

Akane tilted her head. “You usually like watching people squirm. This is different.”

Junko’s gaze slid toward the closed door of Harry’s room. “Even I have standards,” she muttered. “Hurting children is boring, meaningless. There’s no beauty in that despair because they can’t fight back.” She folded her arms. “Anyway, keep an eye on him while I step out. I have some errands to run.”

“Errands, huh?” Akane smirked. “Sure. Don’t be too long. I’ll make him dinner later if you’re not back.”

With that, Junko strolled out of the penthouse, taking the elevator back down to the garage. She found her driver waiting by the car, cell phone in hand. He quickly straightened. “Where to, Ms. Enoshima?”

“I have a few places to visit,” she said vaguely, slipping into the back seat. “I’ll direct you. Let’s go.”

They cruised through London’s darkening streets. Junko’s eyes flickered over the cityscape, her mind drifting to the events of the past days. The Dursleys were gone, that vile manager Graham was gone, and she had Harry Potter under her wing. The world was full of possibilities. She recalled the diaries referencing Harry’s “freakishness,” which likely pointed to some hidden power, and she felt a ripple of curiosity.

Perhaps she would unravel the secrets behind that child. Perhaps she would do more than unravel them—she could mold them, shape his worldview, and see how he responded to life’s cruelty now that he was free from the Dursleys but under her influence. There was a certain satisfaction in that thought.

Eventually, the car arrived at a lavish office building. Junko stepped out, instructing the driver to wait. Inside, she took a private elevator to a suite of offices her agency maintained in London. She needed to check in, handle a few modeling contract details, and also confirm her next move. With the fiasco regarding the local manager resolved—though obviously not in a legal manner—she had to ensure her schedule was still aligned.

An assistant in the reception area jumped to attention when Junko arrived. “Ms. Enoshima, we weren’t expecting you! Do you need anything?”

“Where’s the new manager? They should be in place by now,” Junko said flatly.

“In the main conference room,” the assistant replied nervously, hustling to open the door for her.

Junko stepped into the conference room, finding a tall woman with neatly styled blonde hair and a crisp suit. The woman introduced herself as Ms. Bayfield, apparently taking over the role of liaison for Junko’s British engagements. They exchanged pleasantries, ran through a few upcoming photoshoots and appearances. All the while, Junko’s mind remained partially on the child waiting in her penthouse. She found it odd that she wasn’t bored with these details. Usually, she disliked logistical talk, but she had a sense of new purpose swirling in her thoughts.

Once the business side was concluded, Ms. Bayfield asked carefully, “We heard about Mr. Graham’s… sudden departure. Is everything all right? Are you satisfied with the new arrangement?”

Junko offered a winning smile. “Couldn’t be happier,” she lied smoothly. “He had to leave on short notice, so I’m sure you’ll do better than he ever did.”

Ms. Bayfield smiled, appearing relieved. “I promise to do my utmost to ensure your satisfaction, Ms. Enoshima.”

With that, Junko stood. “Then, I’ll be on my way. I have a… personal project to tend to.” She gave a lazy wave, turning and striding out of the office. Her boots clicked sharply on the marble floor, echoing her confidence. She took the elevator back down, already itching to return to the penthouse and check on Harry. She wanted to see how he was adjusting to a new environment, and perhaps do a little prodding to find out if he knew anything about his hidden powers—if they truly existed.

She climbed back into the car, instructing the driver to take her back. The streets were quieter now, city lights casting long reflections on the Thames. It reminded her of all the places she’d traveled. Every city had a glamorous face and a grim underbelly. That was part of what she loved—exploring the hidden corners, unveiling the shadows. In Harry’s case, she had rescued him from one shadow, but he carried others inside him still.

They arrived at the high-rise building just as the clock neared nine at night. Junko dismissed the driver for the evening, heading upstairs alone. The penthouse was quiet aside from the faint hum of air conditioning. She walked down the hallway to check on Harry, finding his door slightly ajar. Inside, a small lamp was on. Harry was propped up in bed, flipping through a simple children’s book she had bought. He looked up in surprise.

“You’re awake,” Junko remarked. “How’s the leg?”

He glanced at it, lifting it a tiny bit, mindful of the cast. “It aches sometimes, but it’s better than it used to be.”

She nodded, leaning against the doorframe. “We can talk to the doctor about stronger pain meds if you need them.”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No, I can manage.” There was a determination in his voice that caught Junko’s attention. For a kid who had been so abused, there was a surprising resilience here. He didn’t want to rely on others if he could help it.

“All right,” she agreed. She walked into the room, taking a seat on a small chair near the bed. “Mind if I ask you something?”

He blinked warily, but nodded. “Okay…”

Junko tilted her head. “Your aunt and uncle kept calling you a freak, right? Is there something…unusual…that’s happened around you? Something that might have made them say that?”

Harry chewed on his lower lip, eyes drifting to the covers. “Sometimes… weird stuff happened when I was scared,” he admitted hesitantly. “Like… my hair grew back overnight once, after Aunt Petunia cut it all off. And once, I ended up on a school roof, even though I didn’t remember climbing up there. They said it was freakishness, that I was doing unnatural things.”

Junko’s eyes glimmered with interest. So there was something indeed. She tapped a finger against her chin. “Does that happen often?”

He shrugged slightly. “Not really. It’s random. But it used to make them really mad.”

A thoughtful hum escaped Junko’s lips. “Well, I don’t think it’s freakish. Maybe it’s a special ability.” She smirked. “In my line of work, special abilities come in handy.”

Harry seemed unsure how to respond. He shifted under the covers. “I don’t want to be weird,” he murmured. “I just want to be…normal.”

Junko frowned. Normal? She rarely respected normalcy. But she understood that Harry’s perspective was shaped by abuse. He probably just wanted to fit in, to not be punished for having strange occurrences around him. “Sometimes ‘normal’ is overrated,” she murmured. “But for now, just rest. Once your leg heals, we’ll figure this out together.”

He gave a small, hesitant nod. She could see a flicker of relief in his eyes. Whether he believed her or not, he seemed comforted by the notion that someone was willing to help him, not punish him.

Just then, Akane’s voice cut through the penthouse, calling them to dinner. Junko and Harry exchanged glances. “You want to come to the table?” Junko asked. “We can help you walk, or use the wheelchair. Your choice.”

The boy hesitated, then opted for the crutches. Junko helped him stand, and he slowly, carefully made his way to the dining area. Akane had prepared a simple stew, bread, and some side dishes. She dished them out with her usual blunt enthusiasm. “Eat as much as you want, kid. No one’s counting.”

Harry murmured thanks and settled at the table. This time, he was a bit more relaxed, though he still ate quietly. Junko chatted idly with Akane about some half-baked plan for a future catwalk show. Harry didn’t catch all the details, but he gleaned that Junko was someone important in the fashion industry.

After dinner, he retreated to his room again. Junko let him be, sensing he needed time to process everything. Akane plopped onto the sofa, fiddling with a TV remote. When Junko joined her, the other woman raised an eyebrow. “So… you’re going to keep him around. You do realize that might cut into your traveling plans, yeah?”

Junko pursed her lips. “He can come with me, once he’s well enough,” she replied. “Or I can have a stable place for him. Either way, I’m not leaving him to some foster home.”

Akane shrugged. “Suit yourself. I just hope you know what you’re doing.” She paused, flicking through channels. “So about that manager… Did we handle everything with the cops?”

“It’s handled,” Junko replied curtly, her eyes flicking to the side in annoyance. “No one’s going to ask about him. They’ll assume he fled the country or something. My subordinates are thorough.”

Akane made a noncommittal sound and settled on a sports program. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the flicker of the TV casting shadows on the walls. At some point, Junko’s phone buzzed. It was a text from another subordinate, warning of some local wizarding authorities poking around Privet Drive for reasons unknown. Possibly the same type of people who might have placed Harry with the Dursleys in the first place. Junko raised an eyebrow, curiosity stirring in her chest. Wizarding authorities? Perhaps the rumors were true—Harry might be connected to some wizarding world.

She typed a quick reply: Keep tabs on them. Report back if you find anything. She turned off her phone, glancing at Akane. “We might have visitors soon,” she said vaguely.

Akane shrugged, not asking further. If wizard folks showed up, they’d handle it. Meanwhile, in the next room, Harry dozed fitfully, dreams plagued by memories of the cupboard and the blazing anger of Petunia’s eyes. Yet, even in his nightmares, there was a new figure standing in the midst of the terror—a pink-eyed woman with strange hair clips who had carried him out of the darkness. He didn’t know whether to feel safe with her or fear her secrets. But for the moment, he clung to the memory of kindness, because it was all he had.

Morning arrived, soft light filtering through the towering windows of the penthouse. Harry woke to find that someone had left a plate of fresh fruit and toast on the nightstand. He rubbed his eyes, pushing himself up with care, mindful of his cast. A wave of gratitude washed over him. No one had ever bothered to bring him breakfast. Usually, it had been leftover scraps, if anything. He reached for a piece of toast, taking small bites.

About an hour later, Junko knocked gently at the door. “May I come in?”

Harry quickly swallowed the toast. “Yes,” he said.

She entered, carrying a glass of orange juice. “You okay?” she asked, setting the juice beside the plate. “If you need help showering or changing, let me know. It might be tricky with the cast.”

A faint blush colored Harry’s cheeks, but he nodded. “I—I could use some help. I don’t know how to keep the cast dry.”

Junko wasn’t exactly experienced with kids, but she was resourceful enough. She helped him into a secure seat in the bathroom, showing him how to wrap a plastic bag around the cast to avoid water damage. She stepped out to give him privacy once he was settled. It took him longer than normal, but eventually, he emerged in fresh clothes, albeit a bit exhausted from the effort.

“Good job,” Junko said, resisting the urge to give him a patronizing pat on the head. He’d probably had enough condescending gestures from the Dursleys. “Do you want to rest in your room, or sit in the living area?”

He glanced toward the hall. “Living area, please.”

She guided him there, showing him a comfortable armchair near the wide windows. He settled down, his leg stretched out. He found himself gazing at the London skyline—it was strangely peaceful. “It’s nice here,” he murmured.

Junko folded her arms, standing behind the chair. “I like it. But it can get boring, too. Sometimes I need…excitement.” She laughed softly, a dark undertone threading her voice. “But not the kind you’re used to, so don’t worry. I’m not going to… you know.”

He gave a small nod, unsure how to respond. Silence drifted between them until finally, he asked softly, “What happens next? With me, I mean.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I told you—I’ll look after you. You’ll heal, you’ll come along with me if I have more shows to do. Or if I decide to stay put for a bit, we’ll set you up with something stable. You’ll go to school eventually, do normal kid things. If that’s what you want.”

Harry processed that, an odd sense of excitement and fear mingling in his chest. “No cupboard?” he asked quietly, half-joking, half-testing.

Junko scoffed. “Definitely not.”

A flicker of relief crossed his face. He looked at his cast, then at Junko. “Thank you…again.”

She shrugged, a faint smile ghosting her lips. “Don’t mention it, kid.”

Inwardly, Junko wondered if the wizarding world would come for Harry eventually. But if they did, she wasn’t about to hand him over without a fight. She’d discovered him in despair; she would keep him in her orbit. If those so-called wizards tried to claim him, well, that might open a whole new realm of chaos—and Junko Enoshima thrived on chaos.

For now, though, she would let him rest, heal, and slowly adapt to a life he’d never known. And in return, she’d watch, learn, and perhaps guide him down a path that only she could envision. A path that might well redefine the meaning of despair—for better or worse.

She stepped away, letting him marvel at the view. In her mind, the wheels were already turning, forging a future in which Harry Potter would become something far more than just a boy living under a cupboard. He might become a wild card in Junko Enoshima’s grand tapestry of despair—an unpredictable factor that could upend entire worlds.

And if that wasn’t enough to keep life interesting, she didn’t know what was.

(End of Chapter 1)