The restaurant was the sort of place that made Harry instinctively straighten the moment he entered.
Soft golden lighting reflected against polished crystal while quiet classical music drifted through the room beneath the murmur of subdued conversations.
Every table had far too many forks, spoons, and knives, and the waiters moved with the sort of grace that made Harry feel inadequate just by existing nearby.
Harry immediately became aware of everything about himself: how he walked, how he sat, which fork he was supposed to use, whether he was holding the menu incorrectly,…
For a brief moment, the old familiar feeling from Privet Drive returned—that uncomfortable certainty of not belonging.
Then a realization interrupted the spiral.
He actually looked appropriately dressed for this place.
The tailored clothes Dobby prepared fit perfectly.
His jacket sat neatly against his shoulders, the green tie matched his eyes unexpectedly well, and his hair, while still stubbornly messy, at least appeared intentionally styled tonight instead of aggressively windblown.
The staff were not staring because he looked poor or out of place.
They were staring because he was a well-dressed boy sitting in one of London’s fanciest restaurants accompanied by an elegantily dressed obviosly excentric man.
And apparently because Harry himself was, in the opinion of several waitresses, “absolutely adorable.” Harry discovered this when he accidentally overheard two of them whispering near the kitchen entrance.
He became deeply embarrassed immediately afterward.
Across from him, Crowley looked delighted.
“You’ve gone red,” the solicitor observed smugly while sipping wine.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.”
Unfortunately, Crowley was probably correct.
The man somehow managed to be simultaneously alarming and weirdly pleasant company.
Harry still had not decided how he feels about it.
A waiter arrived with their food before retreating with graceful speed and for several minutes they ate quietly.
Well, Harry ate quietly.
Crowley spent most of the meal complaining about modern music, London traffic, and “the horrifying decline of proper restaurants” with the energy of a dramatically bitter aristocrat.
Halfway through dinner the solicitor abruptly shifted the conversation back toward business.
“The tent won’t do.”
Harry looked up from his food.
“…What?”
“As a residence,” Crowley clarified.
“Temporary solution?
Fine.
Long-term?
Absolutely not.”
Harry frowned slightly.
“It’s a good tent.”
“I’m sure it’s a marvelous tent,” Crowley replied patiently.
“Possibly the finest magically expanded wilderness dwelling in Wales.
The Wizengamot will still view it as glorified camping.”
That was unfortunately fair.
Crowley set down his wine glass.
“If we intend to argue that you are capable of functioning independently despite your age, then you require stability.
A proper address, utilities, living records,…
Evidence that you can maintain a residence responsibly over time.”
Harry considered that, and annoyingly enough, it made sense.
“I have the house in Godric’s Hollow,” he pointed out.
Crowley visibly winced.
“No.”
Harry blinked.
“No?”
“My dear boy, your childhood home is currently halfway between a national monument and a tourist attraction.”
Right.
Harry had almost forgotten.
The ruined Potter cottage had become famous after Voldemort’s first defeat.
People visited it, left flowers outside, took photographs, and treated the place like some sort of historical attraction.
Honestly, Harry found the entire thing mildly horrifying and more than a little offensive.
That had been his home, for Merlin’s sake!
The place where his parents had died!
“You are technically the legal owner,” Crowley admitted.
“And the Ministry absolutely overstepped by turning private property into a public memorial without proper consent or compensation.
We could challenge it.”
Harry noticed the phrasing immediately: Could, not should.
“But?” he prompted.
“But it would become a political spectacle immediately,” Crowley replied.
“Property disputes involving Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived’s childhood home, Ministry misconduct, wartime symbolism… every newspaper in magical Britain would descend on the story like vultures.”
Harry grimaced.
“And we don’t want that.”
“Not yet.”
Crowley leaned back slightly in his chair, expression thoughtful behind dark glasses.
“Right now, discretion benefits us far more than publicity.
Before we officially begin legal proceedings, you need an established residence.
Somewhere you can demonstrably live independently for a reasonable period of time.
Enough to prove you’re perfectly capable of managing yourself outside school terms.”
Harry sighed quietly.
That sounded expensive.
“…How exactly am I supposed to buy a house?”
Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“You possess a small fortune.”
“I’m also twelve.”
“Almost thirteen,” Crowley corrected automatically with a teasing grin.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
The solicitor ignored him entirely.
“No respectable Muggle real estate agent is going to sell property to a twelve-year-old boy wandering around London with a briefcase full of gold,” Harry continued.
“And if I try doing it through the magical world, people will notice immediately.”
The image of Harry Potter Secretly House Hunting appearing on the front page of the Daily Prophet flashed through his mind with terrifying clarity.
Crowley hummed thoughtfully.
“With money, my dear boy, almost everything becomes possible eventually.”
That sounded questionable, but annoyingly enough, Harry couldn’t deny it was probably true.
The solicitor reached for his wine again.
“And fortunately for you,” he continued casually, “I happen to know people.”
Harry did not entirely like the way he said that.
“What kind of people?”
“The useful kind.”
Which answered absolutely nothing, Crowley smiled lazily at Harry’s expression.
“I’ll arrange a meeting with a real estate agent,” he said.
“A discreet one.
Someone accustomed to wealthy eccentric clients asking for discretion.”
“Thanks,” Harry said between bites.
Crowley smiled pleasantly.
Somewhere between dessert arriving and Crowley launching into a dramatic complaint about the criminal mistreatment of properly cooked steak in modern Britain, the solicitor casually mentioned another complication.
“You’ll need two properties.”
Harry looked up from his hot chocolate.
“Why?”
Crowley sighed softly, as though the answer should have been painfully obvious.
“Because your life is about to become extremely public.”
Oh, yeah…
The legal case itself would attract attention no matter how carefully Crowley handled things.
Harry Potter pursuing independence from his guardians while challenging Dumbledore’s authority practically guaranteed newspaper headlines, political involvement, gossip, and public scrutiny.
Eventually, information would leak: addresses, schedules, that sort of thing.
People always talked.
Harry’s expression slowly shifted as realization settled into place.
Crowley noticed immediately and pointed a fork toward him approvingly.
“There we are.
You’ve caught up.”
“You want one property to be fake.”
“A decoy,” Crowley corrected pleasantly.
Somewhere visible enough that people believe they know where Harry Potter lives.”
And the second property… Harry leaned back.
Would be the real home.
A private, safe home.
For all his resentment toward Dumbledore, Harry could not deny one uncomfortable truth: The old man had been correct about Voldemort’s supporters.
There were still dangerous people out there; Lucius Malfoy alone proved that, and if Harry openly separated himself from Dumbledore’s protection while publicly challenging the Ministry, some of those people might decide the famous orphan suddenly looked vulnerable.
A decoy house was a brilliant solution to that.
“That’s actually brilliant,” Harry admitted.
Crowley looked deeply pleased with himself.
“Yes, I know.”
Harry was beginning to suspect the man survived primarily through caffeine, arrogance, and pure theatrical confidence.
The rest of dinner passed discussing practical details: Location preferences, layouts, and privacy enchantments.
How much magical concealment could realistically be added without attracting Ministry attention?
Crowley strongly advised against purchasing anything too extravagant.
“You are attempting to appear like a responsible independent minor,” the solicitor explained while lazily stirring espresso that absolutely should not have been his third cup this late at night.
“Not a Bond villain.”
Harry frowned slightly.
“…What’s a Bond villain?”
Crowley looked personally offended.
“We are fixing your film education immediately.”
By the end of the night, Harry possessed a lawyer, a probable legal strategy, tentative plans to buy two properties, and growing concern that Crowley’s definition of “reasonable” differed significantly from humanity’s.
The restaurant began emptying around them as the evening deepened into night.
Crowley paid the bill before Harry could even reach for his coin pouch.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
“I invited you to dinner,” Crowley said smoothly.
“I’m still the one hiring you.” The lawyer just chuckled at that.
Outside, London glowed beneath the night sky, streetlights reflecting against rain-dark pavement while distant traffic hummed endlessly through the city.
Crowley paused beside the Bentley.
“I’ll contact you within the next few days regarding the properties,” he said.
“And Harry?”
Harry looked up.
The amusement faded slightly from Crowley’s expression.
“You’re handling this far better than most adults would.”
The sincerity in the statement caught Harry off guard and before he could properly respond, Crowley climbed into the Bentley and drove away into the London night.
A moment later, Dobby appeared beside Harry with a quiet crack.
“Did the meeting go well, Master Harry?” the elf asked immediately.
Harry considered the question carefully.
“…I think I hired the most dangerous solicitor in London.”
Dobby looked relieved.
“Oh, wonderful.”
Harry stared at him.
He had no idea how to respond to that anymore.
A second later Dobby apparated them back to Wales.
The familiar clearing beside the river appeared around them beneath soft moonlight, the tent glowing warmly in the darkness like a tiny hidden home tucked between mountains and trees.
The moment Harry stepped inside, exhaustion crashed into him all at once.
The stress.
The meetings.
The travel.
The constant thinking and planning.
Without even bothering to change clothes, Harry dropped face-first onto the bed.
“What a day,” he mumbled into the pillow.
Somewhere nearby, Hedwig hooted softly in agreement while Dobby quietly moved around the tent preparing tea.
Harry was asleep less than two minutes later.
***
I need a few more so the story can be ranked